My Evening Serenade: The Hip thing to do…

In many ways Louise’s words[1] tame my heart. In the shadow of night I wait…I wait for you my God. I wait to hear, to see, to feel…to sleep. I wrestle with the permission I receive. I wrestle with your absence. I anticipate your return and wonder what happens in the meantime.

I am your tomato plant. I am the garden that has been over run with weeds and withers under the stress of the light you give. I fall short in the time of harvest. Me and my wondering soul. I am not ready to be, nor am I ready to not be. I too should not be encouraged…I just want a hug.

I pray for departure of hurt, loneliness, isolation, and even I pray for hope. I expect it to arrive in ways I comprehend, meaning I will not see it unless it arrives with a tracking number and delivered to the front door with a ring and an electronic signature.

I yearn for the day I compare myself with the joy of other s rather than the blessings of others. In this I ask, “why not me and a million dollars? Seriously, I would give you back some and only buy a few toys. But I would do good and set up a foundation to aid Africa, named after my grandmother.” That is a pretty good deal. God you got yer ears on? I am offering a pretty good deal here.

I bust my ass to be, do, and love how you would the people that I get along with, agree with, and that do not ask much of me. I tell you, I am a decent and orderly servant. I will do anything you ask, just as long as it is you and not some bullshite. I can tell it is you because you would never ask me to do something that was uncomfortable or dangerous…even challenging to me. Right?

I wonder if I am talking to you. Do I have the right number? Is this the right email address? I will send you a twit or an invite to be my facebook friend. I just want to know I am right and they are wrong…

In the evening hours I am haunted. I am haunted by you and your call. I am afraid I cannot be what you are calling me to be. I am not what you think I am. I seek to be still and cannot. I have ADHD. You made me this way…

You search me and know me. I dig that…

[1] Vespers* by Louise Glück

In your extended absence, you permit me use of earth, anticipating some return on investment. I must report failure in my assignment, principally regarding the tomato plants. I think I should not be encouraged to grow tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold the heavy rains, the cold nights that come so often here, while other regions get twelve weeks of summer. All this belongs to you: on the other hand, I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly multiplying in the rows. I doubt you have a heart, in our understanding of that term. You who do not discriminate between the dead and the living, who are, in consequence, immune to foreshadowing, you may not know how much terror we bear, the spotted leaf, the red leaves of the maple falling even in August, in early darkness: I am responsible for these vines.

*From The Wild Iris, published by The Ecco Press, 1992.

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