My sister didn’t come home from college for Thanksgiving. It was going to be just my mother and me, a dreary prospect. She invited her friend Dottie and Dottie’s son, a college freshman, to make a foursome for Thanksgiving dinner.
As they approached our house, Dottie bearing a bottle of wine and packaged dinner rolls, her son carrying a pumpkin pie, Mom nudged me and said, “Isn’t he a cutie?” Tall, red-headed, walking with a swagger. His clean-cut wholesomeness held not the slightest appeal to me. I shrugged.
The moms dominated dinner conversation, discussing mutual friends, their jobs, plans for Christmas. Occasionally, one lobbed a comment our way.
“Tell Donna about the classes you’re taking,” Dottie instructed her son.…
He put his hand over mine and it looked so old. “No one will even want them,” I said,
“They’re dated”. He said that wasn’t the point and walked over to the white dresser by your bed.
“Let’s start with her shirts,” he said, and I said that your shirts were in the tall dresser by the window. He put a shaky hand on your bed for support, and I could hear his knees creak as he stood. The last time we were in your room together he could have carried your dresser over his shoulder.
“The top drawer?” He asked.
“No,” I said, “the third down.”
He opened the drawer and pulled out a neat pile of tiny shirts that were so colorful. When he took the shirts out of your drawer, the room changed.…
Feelings don’t last. That’s what a therapist once told me. They disappear he said. I agreed with him until yesterday when old feelings resurfaced for the first time in ten years. I was in the Cat and Cage drinking with Mark Dunne. We were catching up on old school days. Alison, his wife, came in about two hours after we arrived and she was excited. She had photographs of a friend’s hen night and was passing them to Mark and me.
I didn’t take much notice of the photographs until I took a second glance at one of them. There stood the girl who was to get married, whose name escapes me and Greta O‘Rourke. I finished my pint and asked Mark and Alison what they wanted to drink.…
Joy Ride by Ron Slate (Carnegie Mellon University Press)
A poet of ideas and emotions, Ron Slate comes as close as anyone to the phrase in Roethe’s villanelle, “The Waking,” “we think by feeling.” While his poems embody ideas and convey feelings, they evoke experiences, they are experiences. They are about boats, gulls, travels to Istanbul, to Brazil, to France. They are about family, friends, and acquaintances, doubt, certainty, grief, joy, imagination, baseball, jazz, and drums, also, airports, hospitals, a neighborhood bar, and a joy ride in a black and white (patrol car) with two women. There’s an investment of self and an absence of ego. They evoke solitude and life with others, experiences borne out of passed down stories, memories, and images embedded in thoughts. …
When you cook for me, it is a full-bodied affair. The clang of the wok on your stovetop, countertop, worktop. Always smashing, pounding, your forearms straining as you design a meal and display the side dishes on the table: blanched vegetables in an avalanche of fresh chilli oil, small bowls of jewelled pickles, meat braised soft and fragrant. The shallow bowls are like cupped hands, and you always treat them with dignity as you push them closer, place choice pieces on my bowl of rice like an offering and I feel obligated to do more than smile in return. I want to bend over your feet and show you devotion.
Yet, as I set the table for your arrival, part of me is convinced inviting you to my flat for dinner exceeds the dimensions of our relationship.…
It’s the third week of September 1992, and Lou doesn’t have to report for seven more days. But over the years managing a busy household and three children, I know to prepare ahead of time when something is important. Always leave time for the unexpected. A child with the croup. A flat tire. A meltdown with the kids. A husband going to prison.
Standing in our cozy kitchen, I stare at the papers Lou hands me. U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons typed at the top—a carbonless, triplicate form detailing the approved items for new inmates. The yellow copy for the inmate’s records. The pink copy for the guard at check in. The blue copy to be placed into the bag carrying the approved items.…
