5
" Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it. "
― Seamus Heaney
6
" What is…” She flipped through a few pages, looked up into his eyes. “Is this…?” “My journal,” he said, reaching out to glide a knuckle down her cheek. Her skin was so damn soft. She was a contradiction in terms to him, and one that he found endlessly fascinating: a woman with the inner strength to rival any Spec Ops member he’d ever known, yet she had such a kind, soft heart beneath that hard-won armor. Resilient. Independent yet willing to compromise. Formidable in her confidence and strength of will, yet gentle and loving. He loved her so hard it hurt. “I bought it the night after you stayed at my place,” he continued. “I knew if I was going to have a real shot with you going forward then I needed to get my shit together once and for all. You said the writing thing really helped you so I called my counselor and talked to her about it. She thought it would be good for me too. So I wrote in it every day since. I’ve been working hard at it.” Taya leafed through the pages until she came to the end and looked back up into his eyes. “It’s full.” “Yeah. Guess I had a lot to say.” The tenderness in her eyes slayed him. “Nathan, I’m so proud of you.” Her pride in him made him feel twenty feet tall. He let out a relieved breath. “I want to read it to you. That’s my next step, if you’re okay with it.” “Of course it’s okay. I’d love for you to read it to me, as long as you feel comfortable doing it.” “That’s the thing, I am. And I wouldn’t be with anyone else except you. You make me feel…whole.” He didn’t know how else to say it, how else to explain himself, except he needed her to know he was trying like hell to deal with his issues. “I know I’ve got a long way to go before I get to the same place you’re at, but I’m willing to put in the work to get there. I feel safe with you and I’m ready to move forward, let go of all the stuff that happened before. Like you said, I’m doing it for me. I’m sick of my past having any kind of hold over me. So I’m going to do whatever it takes to make peace with it.” Her answering smile lit up her whole face, made her gray eyes sparkle like gems. “Then I’ll gladly listen to whatever you want to say.” Warmth kindled in his chest. She did that; warmed him from the inside out, just by being her. “Good, because I love you.” She froze, her eyes widening slightly. He nodded, laughed at her shocked expression. “Yep, I love you. That’s what I came here to say. I love you and I’m a better man because of it, but not as good a man as I’ll be down the road if you stand by me.” Her eyes filled with tears and she flung her arms around him. “I love you too,” she blurted out against his neck. “So, so much. And of course I’ll stand by you.” Nate felt like his heart might burst. He hugged her hard. “Would you move to Virginia with me? When your dad’s strong enough. I know you need to be here for a while longer, but after that, I want you in my bed every night so I can wake up beside you each morning.” She gave a soggy laugh, her face still buried in his neck. “There you go again with the romance.” “Oh, baby, have I got plans for you.” He stroked a hand over her back, fascinated by the combination of softness and strength that was uniquely her. Then his stomach rumbled, making her smile. He was starving, hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any bacon in the house, would you? Because I’d kill for a BLT right now. "
11
" 5-4-10 Tuesday 8:00 A.M.
Made a large batch of chili and spaghetti to freeze yesterday. And some walnut fudge! Relieved the electricity is still on.
It’s another beautiful sunny day with fluffy white clouds drifting by. The last cloud bank looked like a dog with nursing pups.
I open the window and let in some fresh air filled with the scent of apple and plum blossoms and flowering lilacs. Feels like it’s close to 70 degrees. There’s a boy on a skate board being pulled along by his St. Bernard, who keeps turning around to see if his young friend is still on board.
I’m thinking of a scene still vividly displayed in my memory. I was nine years old. I cut through the country club on my way home from school and followed a narrow stream, sucking on a jawbreaker from Ben Franklins, and I had some cherry and strawberry pixie straws, and banana and vanilla taffy inside my coat pocket. The temperature was in the fifties so it almost felt like spring. There were still large patches of snow on the fairways in the shadows and the ground was soggy from the melt off.
Enthralled with the multi-layers of ice, thin sheets and tiny ice sickles gleaming under the afternoon sun, dripping, streaming into the pristine water below, running over the ribbons of green grass, forming miniature rapids and gently flowing rippling waves and all the reflections of a crystal cathedral, merging with the hidden world of a child. Seemingly endless natural sculptures.
Then the hollow percussion sounds of the ice thudding, crackling under my feet, breaking off little ice flows carried away into a snow-covered cavern and out the other side of the tunnel. And I followed it all the way to bridge under Maple Road as if I didn't have a care in the world. "
― Andrew Neff , The Mind Game Company: The Players
13
" I'm thinking that it will be autumn soon," she said, lifting her gaze to his. " Autumn is my absolute favorite season. Spring is overrated. It's soggy and the trees are still bare from winter. Winter drags on and on, and summer is nice, but it's all the same. Autumn is different. I mean, is there any perfume in the world that can compare with the smell of burning leaves?" she asked with an engaging smile. Matt thought she smelled a hell of a lot better than burning leaves, but he let her continue. " Autumn —is thexincgitsinagrechanging. It's like dusk." " Dusk?" " Dusk is my favorite time of day, for the same reason. When I was young, I used to walk down our driveway at dusk in the summer and stand at the fence, watching all the cars going by with their headlights on. Everyone had a place to go, something to do. The night was just beginning ..." She trailed off in embarrassment. " That must sound incredibly silly." " It sounds incredibly lonely. "
15
" The Butcher’s Shop
The pigs are strung in rows, open-mouthed,
dignified in martyrs’ deaths. They hang
stiff as Sunday manners, their porky heads
voting Tory all their lives, their blue rosettes
discarded now. The butcher smiles a meaty smile,
white apron stained with who knows what,
fingers fat as sausages. Smug, woolly cattle
and snowy sheep prance on tiles, grazing
on eternity, cute illustrations in a children’s book.
What does the sheep say now?
Tacky sawdust clogs your shoes.
Little plastic hedges divide the trays of meat, playing farms.
playing farms. All the way home
your cold and soggy paper parcel bleeds. "
― Angela Topping
19
" ...DAMNATION!'
No device of the printer's art, not even capital letters, can indicate the intensity of that shriek of rage. Emerson is known to his Egyptian workers by the admiring sobriquet of Father of Curses. The volume as well as the content of his remarks earned him the title; but this shout was extraordinary even by Emerson's standards, so much so that the cat Bastet, who had become more or less accustomed to him, started violently, and fell with a splash into the bathtub.
The scene that followed is best not described in detail. My efforts to rescue the thrashing feline were met with hysterical resistance; water surged over the edge of the tub and onto the floor; Emerson rushed to the rescue; Bastet emerged in one mighty leap, like a whale broaching, and fled -- cursing, spitting, and streaming water. She and Emerson met in the doorway of the bathroom.
The ensuing silence was broken by the quavering voice of the safragi, the servant on duty outside our room, inquiring if we required his assistance. Emerson, seated on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, took a long breath. Two of the buttons popped off his shirt and splashed into the water. In a voice of exquisite calm he reassured the servant, and then transferred his bulging stare to me.
I trust you are not injured, Peabody. Those scratches...'
The bleeding has almost stopped, Emerson. It was not Bastet's fault.'
It was mine, I suppose,' Emerson said mildly.
Now, my dear, I did not say that. Are you going to get up from the floor?'
No,' said Emerson.
He was still holding the newspaper. Slowly and deliberately he separated the soggy pages, searching for the item that had occasioned his outburst. In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.) "
― Elizabeth Peters , The Deeds of the Disturber (Amelia Peabody, #5)
