In every pocket he carried pencils, pads of paper
together with crumbs of bread, the accidents of life.

Czeslaw Milosz

Remember the big bird cakes of our youth? I would like such a cake. To small, thick fingers in superman icing!

Today is grayblue, a bit smug, and cold. Today will look you in the eyes, despite what you told it when you were waking. Today should be a day for picnics and small flowers pushing their backs through the soil, but it never does listen to what I say.

At my elbow a feather crinkles at the edges. I have carried it from continent to continent, so it has the right. Other things at my elbow: A string of cloth birds from India, Cherry chapstick, a broken cell phone, a dime. The dime spent a few weeks in my pocket, wandering a bit I'm afraid. Surely to the dime it felt like floating in circles, or there and back again. I took it out last night and laid it on the table. Everyone was sipping tea but D, who likes to let his tea cool on the table until he forgets it.

D: (whispering) Do we have any wigs in the house?
Dad: Yes.
D: (still whispering) Where?
Dad: In my makeup room.
D: Don't be sarcastic, I'm trying to find something. I think B has some wigs in the basement. I'm going to go look for one. Will you come with me?
Me: Absolutely I will.

This morning I marched bleareyed to the kitchen and found his full cup of tea on the counter. The poor bag wrinkled just under the surface. Deflated it was. It, too, would like a cake please.

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