As Mourning Doves Persist

for condiment, only mustard, dusty dark Dijon. Merely mustard for the garlic sausage and to spread across tortilla. Top curlicues of sweet potato fries. Dribble on fresh wilt spinach. Only mustard for this retreat. Two days away with this most confident of seasonings and a tall thin jar of olives, gin, Earl Grey, and dark chocolate covered toffee. But there is also salt in this casita and cane sugar on a shelf in a bag with clothespin to clasp it shut. A soldier’s queue of spices including Chef Paul Prudhomme’s Magic Blend. A writer will not starve here. Nothing bland. Sharp is the dab of smoky paste against the sweet fried bites speared with foreign fork. Not mayonnaise. Not sour cream. The mustard is the master, no matter.

Once she was a lapful of a girl. We read the same bedtime story over and over again about a mother and daughter who collected pennies and quarters in a great big jar. The mother was a waitress, I think, and worked tirelessly. She spilled the thumbprints of metal onto the table every night, and together they scooped them like favorite crumbs into their readied, bird catcher palms. From there, they tumbled the symphony of coins into the open mouth of the jar with a secure lid. You see, there was a big rose studded fabric chair they were saving up for, and by the close of the story they were bound for the furniture store. They bought that luscious rest of a long forthcoming fortune with their savings. They put it in the back of a pickup truck and climbed into it together as a helpful friend drove them straightaway toward home. Tonight my girl will dress for the prom in black miniskirt wearing flashy shoes to offset the rainy spring air. She will pin a boutonniere of two white calla...

What of these jagged mornings. Two men pull the ropes  from east coast and southwest to settle their mother's estate  by telephone. My daughter builds an energy efficient house in miniature on her bedroom floor as confidence flags for the day's history test; knives and scissors hidden everywhere under cardboard. Yesterday having eaten too much sugar, I rise with a headache and neck like a warped board. The dog dreams a heart attack in the chilly shadow of the 8 a.m. study. Her belly breathes a snare drum of staccato yelps. For these minutes the mourning dove's calling is overridden with traffic streaming like water that I cannot hold back. I walk the hallway with my fingertips on the walls as if braille were the surrender. Signal to knowledge of what will arrive next. 'tis the season of concrete and hammers. Taut wire will hold us together. Press down on the tongue and respect one another.