day starts out thus:
my pops and i are standing in the kitchen. he shakes my hand, says there's nothing really ever to worry about. there are two possibilities, either you are sick or you are not sick. if you are not sick, you have nothing to worry about. if you are sick, two things can happen. you live, or you die. he is counting off, index finger to index. if you live, you have nothing to worry about. if you die, two things can happen. you can go to heaven [he points upstairs] or you can go to hell. if you go to heaven [you get the picture], but if you go to hell, you will be so busy shaking the hands of all of your friends you won't really have anything to worry about. thanks, dad.
and ends:
the fam gathered around little mics connected by fiber optic. lots of crying.
tito bembot, sumalangit nawa ang kaluluwa niya.
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moments when you can learn to fly.
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Blog Archive
these days.
knitting these days / together
with the click
of aluminum needles
illuminated by late night
television--David Letterman,
Night Court, the news--nothing
new to my lola, who'd hardly look up
from the scarf or hat spilling out
of her hands.
tucked in next to her in the bed,
the rhythm of her hands keeping
a steady tick click tick of knitting,
i'd watch the figures on our snowy
television, thinking
if my parents only knew how late
lola let us stay up.
these days i knit / late
in the night, can't stand
television.
i want to know /my hands
are connected
to the same scarf the same
hat that spilled forth from
my lola's hands.
i want to create / the same
warmth of snuggling under
a blanket with her, the same
memory that i can wrap around
my shoulders like the last time
i embraced her
her calling out my niece's name
who was the same age then that i was
living with my lola growing up
maybe i should / teach
my niece the same rhythm
the same tick click tick
the same pintig
of these hands.
with the click
of aluminum needles
illuminated by late night
television--David Letterman,
Night Court, the news--nothing
new to my lola, who'd hardly look up
from the scarf or hat spilling out
of her hands.
tucked in next to her in the bed,
the rhythm of her hands keeping
a steady tick click tick of knitting,
i'd watch the figures on our snowy
television, thinking
if my parents only knew how late
lola let us stay up.
these days i knit / late
in the night, can't stand
television.
i want to know /my hands
are connected
to the same scarf the same
hat that spilled forth from
my lola's hands.
i want to create / the same
warmth of snuggling under
a blanket with her, the same
memory that i can wrap around
my shoulders like the last time
i embraced her
her calling out my niece's name
who was the same age then that i was
living with my lola growing up
maybe i should / teach
my niece the same rhythm
the same tick click tick
the same pintig
of these hands.
moments when you can learn to fly.
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