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Letter to Myself

This is the table of tart and strong. A birthday breakfast made for myself this morning. I pry biscuits from a can whose sides split and pour hot water through biscochito coffee grounds from this state I know as home, sans sugar. A friend's gift comes unwrapped (yellow paper with florescent pink skeletons dancing in their flexible bones), and her universe joins my own at the evergreen cloth table top. A postcard of three Buddhas perched against a vase of stargazer lilies flash peace signs. Am I showing my age? I'm sure that I am.


A day ahead with work calls and deadlines, in other words no day off for this responsible daughter. Even my father's card blows a sparkly horn proclaiming its heritage gifts of patience and efficiency. So, who am I to question others; all of us pushing, pressing, breaking and anticipating. Cranberry chutney on white bread. Coffee in a sturdy black mug. Heat shuffling through the rooms. I am a reliable companion in need of a haircut. 

 Tonight, jazz and anti-pasto. But for now my bones unfold to press off, to stand, and the liquid cools to touch my anxious tongue. Glass in bins on the snowy sidewalk outside wait patiently to be recycled.

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