The bright afghan is in the dryer as we speak. It seemed to have come through the wash just fine, no colors bled onto their neighbors, and if it can stand to be tossed around in the dryer, I will call it a raging success.
I have started the blue afghan, I think. I have an idea for it. Undulating columns of stripes, like an ocean or the sky or a song a girl sings when her heart is heavy and she wants to be distracted from worry. We’ll see how it goes.
Also, my bloggy friend’s daughter is home. I don’t know any more details than that, but I want to take it as a good omen.
There were two fat crows in the tree on my way home from work. I also wanted to see that as an omen.
Please, please, please have meaning for me, too, and mean good news.
It’s just different with my mom. I see her in me. I feel her hair on my head. I see her mother’s face in mine. My big butt is her big butt and I am knit together from her stuff.
I don’t feel like I could ever lose my mom. I don’t know how to explain it any better than that. It would be like losing the sun or the moon or my own blood. How could death separate us? How could death begin to sort us out?
But my dad?
He and I are like two children tugging on a rope as hard as they can.
If one lets go, the other goes tumbling backwards.
And yet, without agreement ahead of time, how can they move closer to each other without hurting each other?
The minute one takes a step forward, the slack in the rope will send the other spilling.
We have never figured that out, I don’t think.
But I want the chance to keep trying.
That’s all I can say about it.
I’m kind of swamped tomorrow, but I’ll try to check in here after I know how the surgery went, just to let y’all know.