A Wonderful Evening
I invited the guests to my if-you-could-dine-with-anybody dinner:
Jesus, Jim Harrison, Carly Simon, and my great grandmother Callie.
It was a gorgeous beginning, everyone appearing so at ease, then Jesus
started ascending, calling down ‘its really to your advantage if I go.’
I said ‘okay’ – I half expected that from him all along. Then Jim Harrison
(after presenting me a bottle of Domaine Tempier Bandol) shapeshifted
into a bear, huffed at the Lord’s quickly elevating soles, and loped off
toward a pine thicket. I yelled ‘Thanks, Jim!’ but I guess he didn’t hear me.
Carly Simon wore that blue sweater from No Secrets, as I’d hoped, but
halfway through her entree she began to beam away like in a Star Trek
episode. This confirmed my boyhood belief that she is something wholly other.
So that left me and Callie, my Native American ancestor, who died long ago
and of whom is said ‘she never talked much.’ You don’t want to move too fast
around the dead and I feared she was already spooked on the heels of the other
guests’ dramatic exits, so I opened Harrison’s bottle and offered her a glass.
She accepted and surprised me with ‘You have your grandmother’s eyes.’
We sat still, just me and Callie. She said ‘Look here, I’m going after that bear,
but really, son, thank you for a wonderful evening.’ She walked away with
streaks of sunset on her shoulders. I yelled ‘Nice to meet you, Callie!’ I thought she didn’t hear me but then I could see no, she was commanding the silence.
streaks of sunset on her shoulders. I yelled ‘Nice to meet you, Callie!’ I thought she didn’t hear me but then I could see no, she was commanding the silence.
Absolutely stark raving beautiful. One of the best poems I’ve read in a long while.
Thank you, Teresa!
JDB- when i read stuff like this….i wonder….shouldn’t you be working on a maunscript~or something~ no more dark chocolate for you my friend ~
Tim, I’m really dependent on the dark chocolate…its just the way it is.
That dark chocolate continues to work its magic in your brain, John. What do you call this kind of creation – it’s a poem. . . and it’s not a poem. Whatever it is, I love it. And I’d love to have had a great-grandmother like yours. I have a hunch mine were loud and bossy.
Twas in February, 1948, that a tornado hit the old farm house and as your great-grandfather ran down the dark dirt road to get help the old house caught fire and burned your great-grandmother, Callie, to ashes. Her last words to her husband were, “Sam, go on and get some help. I’ll be alright till you get back.” I as 8 at that time.
Dad
Oh my… how the re telling of the story brings something of them back to life within us, how it shaped us, … is still shaping us.
p.s. a proper thank you to you, Dad Blase, for building into and shaping this writer son of yours.
these are the good old days
Man, I just love your work. It enchants me and calls me to beauty. It helps me to believe that God really does love honesty and creativity and inspires me to “let my words come out to play” as my writing instructor said I should.