Tonight, one of the older daughters comes to dinner and also to cry on my shoulder. The other one, sick with nausea, headaches, and cold sweats, takes her sister’s hands in her own too across the kitchen table. And then they bend their heads upon the braided place mats and sit like that a while, not saying much, but feeling. I’d always thought when I turned fifty I’d feel not older, not wearier, but wiser. But here I am, porous clay madonna watching this tableau, while outside, in late summer twilight, the air is clear and the sun buffs the edges of foliage at a low angle. If you look closely you might be astonished to see how many small insects drift back and forth across the trees. Sometimes I wonder if each one has a tiny parachute pack strapped to his back. Sometimes I wonder what it is they’re bailing out of or ziplining towards. And then the moon comes. And then all that soft indigo that goes on and on without end.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.