Ramblin'

The guy was a WWII pilot, and of all the things my brother could have on his desk about my granddad he has the bowling trophy from 1966.

The two of them never met. And for some reason something about seeing that stupid trophy amidst the clutter of sports regalia and stacks of books has me all weepy. My brother will never meet Papa, the WWII pilot, fixer of all things broken, and absolutely stellar grandparent, but at least he’s got his name and his eyes.

And, I guess, the bowling trophy.

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses about life’s decay, decay and beauty.
I come back.  The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of the stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear. 

Anna Akhmatova

Are the best thing ever to happen to my ears.

Love the job, hate the life-sucking hours. Tempted to jump off the roof into a bed of pointy nails but I won’t.

Will seriously never work.