My grandmother and I giggle over dumplings and powdered flowers. We talk of many things: of soviet soldiers—and benzodiazepines—and bears in silk sashes, of our favorite reds—and card games, how I have always been in love with my broken heart and what am I to do?
“Mamela” she tells me, “find someone to hold it together and tolerate them.”
Thoughts for December 2018:
Froth feels nice.
I regret everything I said on telephone calls that never connected and wrote in letters the postman skipped. I rue those successful dispatches too.
I forgot to be sad on a wintery evening when it turned into the fourth of July. Oh how this complicates matters.
Listening to Dusty Springfield and other women singing alone helps me to not say what I do not really feel.
Reading material of the month:
My Papa and the Maid of Orleans
Thus Were Their Faces
The Arthritic Grasshopper
Priestess of Morphine