Groundhog Mother

Groundhog mother
I'm sorry about your baby
I'm ashamed and sorry
You fled at the sound of the engine;
I remember my relief.
But your baby was stuck in a crevice above the wheel well.

Minutes later, a thud under my tire, and a baby animal
striping a parking space and dying.

I'm so sorry.

I think it is best that you remain afraid of me and all my kind.
We - I - won't slow down. I'm not even sure I could, now, if I wished to.

You are a soft-bellied earth citizen - I am a war machine.
I will tell you your son died doing his service.
But I know it is because I would only make myself bigger, better, bigger, better, endlessly marching on.

You will do well to stay simple,
digging holes, not speaking the language of death - knowing by heart the language of suffering.
I am the war machine.

Best Texts of the Week, January 2016

Week of January 29
K.L.: Pizza and beer and movies?

Week of January 22
Me: Good morning, mom! Thanks for getting me vaccinated. :)
Mom: You are welcome.

Week of January 15
A.S.: Ok, ladies today's goal is fewer tears and less sadness. We won't say no tears and no sadness because that's unrealistic. Just fewer and less. Deal?

Week of January 8
B.R.: Ok, on my way with 2 pieces of leftover shoo fly.

Week of January 1
Jacob: Random question: Where in Lancaster is a great place to get tacos? I feel like this is a thing you'd have an opinion on.

Dear Keats

You say touch has a memory.
How to exorcise it?
You think on a good many things.
Sit and think. Sit and think.
How, do tell me, do I move on on on
On on on
And still think myself capable of loving ever?

Love was not a game to me,
Or was it? Of course not, my mouth tells me:
nothing tastes sweet.
Only the bitter things draw me,
and people not at all.

Beer, and shoveling this unbelievable mass of
snow that has graciously transported me
from my home planet to one resembling Hoth.
And all its beasts are in my head
as I shovel on on on on on
the pile topples.

I miss you, dear. And the idea of you, and
your hand on my back, your shoulders
such a sweet place to rest my head.
Your slow kiss on top of my hair, the
kind of kiss reserved for babies,
whose heads need kissing, you know.

Colds in the Winter's Springtime

The cold came in a few stages.

First, it was merely encroaching, a friend cancelled because she was sick. 

Then, I visited my Adriane and her three sons, all of whom had suffered the wrath for a week at that point. It was part of life already. Runny noses, and every surface just given up for lost. That was when I knew it wouldn't be long.

Then it became part of my surroundings: both roommates were coughing, sneezing, and looking as though they'd been through a pepper spray incident. Tissues filled the trash cans. I briefly considered buying and using some kind of disinfectant spray on the couch pillows... before falling asleep on said pillows, blissfully reliant upon my own immune system. 

Precisely when everyone else is turning the corner, and my sympathetic, "how are you feeling today?" has become entirely too trite, and replaced with nothing but a sympathetic nod -- precisely then, I began to sneeze. And cough. Then my body, too, produced and immediately expelled nasally, more mucus than is ladylike to even speak of. (Alright, where are my censors? "Mucus" shouldn't make the cut.)

Second box of tissues: gone. 

Eyes: watering. 

Lips: outlined in dry red.

I don't say this for pity. No. Wait. Yes, I do. I desperately wanted someone to tell me to go home and sleep for hours on end. I wish I had told you that, when you were sick.

The Best Dating Advice You'll Ever Get

I promise you, I get a few messages daily on a free dating website which shall not be named, which read, "Hey, how are you?" Ask. Good. Questions.

I can think of several reasons why a  person might be on a dating website: everything from looking for a spouse, to networking, to... other things. I get it. But the point is to nurture a deeper relationship. So ask good questions.

That's why I'm past anger and on to puzzling: why would someone's first contact with you or me be simply, "Hey, how are you?"? In my culture, I walk down the street and get that question, and I'm justified in ignoring it. I may not even look at the asker, depending on the time of day. I mean, we're passing each other and you ask, "How's it goin'?" and I'm still walking in the opposite direction. I may nod. I may not nod. This is not a conversation. You don't know me, and aren't asking to. Ask good questions. Really wonder, and then ask.

When you're on a dating website, you have the chance to look at a lot of information about a person that would usually take an entire first date or more to find out. You get a serious advantage this way! It's like eliminating the risk of a terrible first date! Ask good questions. Read the whole profile, then ask good questions.

I hope we all know how lovely it is to be asked a sincere, open, specific question, then to be listened to. The same guy who messages me, "Hey, how are you?" has a profile that consists of the following Self Summary:

I hate writing these things. Anything you want to know, just ask.

No. NO. No and no. Your readers know intuitively that you're not being fair: you want the reader to do all the work of relationship, based on, what, your profile picture? Your reader doesn't owe you anything. This isn't the space for your nonchalance, even if you are James Dean.

With a summary like that, you've just set yourself apart from people who think at least occasionally, who are respecting their reader, and who have an idea of what their lives are about, or at least a candid self-awareness that they haven't got a clue, but are still willing to put in the time to say so.

Ask good questions. And if you really want to set yourself apart, be ready to listen for the answer.

More Scenes From Single Life

Scene 1, March:
I was washing dishes and singing, "How Deep the Father's Love For Us."

When I got to the line about "the Father turns his face away," Carmen, who had been mopping in the other room, shouted, "That's pretty terrible atonement theology!"

Scene 2, April:
I had plans to stay at home and create a budget, then practice piano, for a job well done. Or, maybe skip the budget bit altogether, actually. Or, maybe go buy some shoes, which was more urgent than it sounds. Then Leah came home and started bringing tissue paper downstairs, and filling up the dining room table with edible things. "Hey, Carolyn! Are you staying for wedding craft night?"

"Sure, but only for a half hour."

Two hours later, I went on a 20-minute shoe mission, loathe to leave a dining room full of wine, good stories, scissors, glue, and bits of paper and wire. (Who am I kidding? I hate crafts. But I love people.) When I returned, Leah was modelling dresses she had purchased for the occasion, and asking for us to pick our top two, so she could return the rest. We convinced her to keep four.

A Texting Conversation, September:
Bethany: Do you know what's on the grocery list?
Carolyn: I think it was just curry powder, which is obviously not a good representation of our actual life situation regarding food.
Bethany: Don't worry! I bought a watermelon!

A Breakfast Conversation, October:
Bethany: Whoa. That's a lot of chocolate chips for 7 am.
Carolyn: grunt
Bethany: Not judging. Just commenting.

Stuck on an Island With Taylor Swift: 7 Days of 1989

Day One: I'm so glad I have this brand new CD for my broke-down car CD player. I love "Wildest Dreams." I think I have told everyone about it. I will listen to it on repeat.

Day Two: crying Still playing "Wildest Dreams."

Day Three: I'm driving to an outdoor wedding, thinking about my hair while it rains hard. "Clean" is on repeat until I pick up two more bridesmaids, and we drive to pictures together: "Wildest Dreams" six more times.

Day Four: Today is Sunday, and I'm reminded that I also love Jesus, along with Taylor. So I turn on the radio, and listen to... is that Michael W. Smith?... Can't do it. Back to Taylor, "This Love." I led small group tonight, and realized that at one point, three T-Swift songs were vying for being the song in my head. It was difficult to explain to small group, but I think they get it.

Day Five: I've begun to feel very emotional. Is it the music? Is it a lack of sleep? "This Love," on repeat.

Day Six: Maybe it's time to diversify my listening throughout the day? I listen to Mumford and Sons at work, but realize that it's their latest album, which, true to critique, sounds like nothing, and I was humming Taylor Swift anyway.

Day Seven: It has finally occurred to me that certain paths of my recent actions may have been influenced by Taylor Swift's catchy lyrics and steady eyeliner. This, of course, has led me to an important decision, in which I take out the CD I've been protecting by locking my car, and I insert a different CD. It doesn't matter which one. None are as good, none as smooth, none as fun, nor well-produced as Taylor. But it may be my last chance to grip reality, and I cannot miss it.