mom
Her every skin and blood cell. The way she purses her lips and vehemently shakes her head in disbelief. Her sing alongs to the Rolling Stones. The buzz of her sewing machine. Her rants on all things made in China. The shape of her face in dark sunglasses. Her macaroni salad. The way she clasps a cup of tea to keep her delicate hands warm. Her expansive trivia knowledge. The hodgepodge of clothing she wears with blingy embellishments. Her disdain for intellectuals. The way she folds her clothes. Her fondness of kitsch. The boundless generosity. Her tiny sweatless feet. All of her. I love.
Mom and sister Leah to the right
dance dance dance
A letter to my wife, Mrs. Felicity Fenton: Dear FF,
I had a long dream about you last night involving an Antarctic prom dress. You were to wear the dress without shivering. Those were the orders from your subordinates who you didn't like very much. They had drippy scowls on their faces and poked at you with an arm they removed from some dead guy. You didn't like that very much either. I'm certainly glad that was just a dream and not reality. I couldn't bear it if you were being tortured with an ice dress and a stinky cadaver.
Still, I do think there is some truth to the dream. You've been looking a tad forlorn this week. Something about our eyes and the way they droop a little to the right. I certainly hope you have been taking the time to nourish yourself. I know it rains alot in Portland, but you have always been good about getting outside despite the ick falling from the sky. Drink a glass or six of water. Roll around on the floor. Sing me a tune in Spanish about a lost mustache. I think that should suffice for now.
Off to tickle my terrible.
Love,
FF