Every day, the sun shines on a brisk morning, where I bike to work, work in blessed silence for about an hour until everyone else arrives. Scanning is fairly monotonous, but I am learning the history of the town, and it is just as interesting as 17th century Suffolk, if you have all the moving pieces. At eleven, I take a break, go home to Erik for a half an hour, and then to back to scanning. I get off at 3:30. About that time everyday, the pressure of the heat and the wind has blown in a storm that has to sprinkle for a few short minutes until the clouds part and it gives way to beautiful evening.
My house is full of all the things I love, most notably Erik, but also our paintings, our computers, good food, and some pots where we are growing Poppies. Even though it is not perfect, I am loving my life, and really loving it here. Here's to us, sweet. All I have left to say was said better, by Rita May Reese, in The American on His First Honeymoon. Enjoy.
What we can say has already been said
about each painting in the gallery—
about the quality of light, the way she holds her head.
So we are silent in the subway, silent in bed.
Our bodies too are mute; we fall asleep knowing
what we could say has already been said.
Over toast and coffee and the newspaper thoroughly read
the day unfolds between us. I am too weak to carry
this quality of light, the way she holds her head.
I would vow to leave if love had left
if this were the wedding of two gypsies.
But what should I say? It has been said
the dead would properly bury the dead
and here I am, alive at last and buried
by the quality of light, and the way she holds her head.
Perhaps women, sex, love are all over-rated.
Which of us is the artist and which the light? You see,
the words I might say have been better said—
words concerning the quality of light, the way you hold your head