i hate waiting
no word yet on the apartment. the rental agent is still waiting to hear from the owner/landlord. >.< farwing and i saw another place tonight, just to be safe, and i liked it altho i liked the neighborhood yesterday better. the place we saw today had a weak kitchen (shocker) and not a lot of wall space in the living and dining rooms, which i know sounds weird and picky but there were a lot of doors and the opening between the two rooms was very wide. and i need some walls in my rooms. overall it wasn't a bad place, altho it didn't have dogs living downstairs.
at i think tamalinn's rec i watched a documentary on netflix called murder among the mormons, which is as promised about murdered mormons (two) and old mormon documents and a certain amount of suspicious shit. i correctly guessed how it was going to end, but it was interesting to watch how things unfolded and how the various mysteries were solved.
Now and then the phone will ring and it will be
someone from my youth. The voice of a favorite cousin
stretched across many miles sounding exactly as she always has:
that trained concentration of one who stutters-
the slight hesitations, the drawn-out syllables,
the occasional lapse into a stammer.
When asked, she says my aunt is well for her age but
she forgets. I remember the last time I saw my aunt-
leaning on her cane, skin smooth as river rock,
mahogany brown, gray hair braided into two plaits
stretched atop her head and held in place
with black bobby pins.
She called to say James Lee has died. And did I know
Aunt Mary, who had four crippled children
and went blind after uncle Benny died, died last year?
I did not.
We wander back awhile, reminding and remembering:
Me under the streetlight outside our front yard
face buried in the crook of my arm held close
to the telephone pole as I closed my eyes and sang the words:
Last night, night before, twenty-four robbers at my door
I got up to let them in... hit ‘em in the head with a rolling pin,
then counted up to ten while they ran and hid.
Visiting the graves of grandparents I never knew.
Placing blush-pink peonies my father grew and cut
for the occasion into mason jars. Saying nothing.
Simply staring at the way our lives come down
to a concrete slab.
--"Legacy", Rhonda M. Ward
at i think tamalinn's rec i watched a documentary on netflix called murder among the mormons, which is as promised about murdered mormons (two) and old mormon documents and a certain amount of suspicious shit. i correctly guessed how it was going to end, but it was interesting to watch how things unfolded and how the various mysteries were solved.
Now and then the phone will ring and it will be
someone from my youth. The voice of a favorite cousin
stretched across many miles sounding exactly as she always has:
that trained concentration of one who stutters-
the slight hesitations, the drawn-out syllables,
the occasional lapse into a stammer.
When asked, she says my aunt is well for her age but
she forgets. I remember the last time I saw my aunt-
leaning on her cane, skin smooth as river rock,
mahogany brown, gray hair braided into two plaits
stretched atop her head and held in place
with black bobby pins.
She called to say James Lee has died. And did I know
Aunt Mary, who had four crippled children
and went blind after uncle Benny died, died last year?
I did not.
We wander back awhile, reminding and remembering:
Me under the streetlight outside our front yard
face buried in the crook of my arm held close
to the telephone pole as I closed my eyes and sang the words:
Last night, night before, twenty-four robbers at my door
I got up to let them in... hit ‘em in the head with a rolling pin,
then counted up to ten while they ran and hid.
Visiting the graves of grandparents I never knew.
Placing blush-pink peonies my father grew and cut
for the occasion into mason jars. Saying nothing.
Simply staring at the way our lives come down
to a concrete slab.
--"Legacy", Rhonda M. Ward