Thanksgiving weekend is drifting by in silence like a ghost ship while the sky turns toward winter and Casey sleeps the way only an old dog can sleep. Scelsa is on the radio and the only light in this room is from the art nouveau lamp that Jane gave me for my birthday a million years ago. It's quiet enough that I can hear the stream of time rolling by outside, it sounds like the hiss of cool water on hot dry sand. And I'm thinking back on other times I passed this way, other years and other Novembers....
Like,
1968 in an old house in San Francisco, sitting with our feet up on the porch railing and holding her hand while we passed the bourbon back and forth.
1970 in an old house on a bluff over Seneca Lake, watching the grey clouds kiss the tops of the grey pine trees,while Rachelle slept with her head on my shoulder.
1973 in an old house on the far end of Jane Street near the Hudson River with a red haired girl who was always better than she thought she was.
1974 in the last house by the end of the LaGuardia Airport runway, watching the sunset from the front steps with a brown eyed girl while her six year old daughter played jacks on the sidewalk.
1975 in the Buffalo Road House on Seventh Avenue, with an L.A. girl who was so much farther out of her element than she knew.
1979 watching the parade on tv with a dancer who couldn't believe I bought her a dozen red roses in the middle of winter.
1983 sitting on the roof watching the sunset over the skyline and sharing a bottle with a bitter young artist who had more talent than she knew.
1991 bringing Chinese food to my wife in the hospital after and asthma attack. She never would eat hospital food.
1999 at my aunt's house, the last time she knew who any of us were, before the Alzheimers.
2o02 the last time I saw my sister alive, before she drank herself to death.
And so on. I like it when Thanksgiving's quiet.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment