I’m 15, watching “Swing Time,” wondering if anything could ever be as smooth
as the dancing of Fred and Ginger
and dialog of 1930’s writers.
Perhaps Chaplin before talkies.
I imagine riffing like Rosalind Russell
but I’m nobody’s Girl Friday.
I glare like Bacall and ache like Cary Grant
without discernable roots.
The ‘40s and ‘50s flew by
but not without leaving marks.
I’m 51 and my marks are showing in ways
I had not anticipated.
I don’t know how long I can hold on
before I lose it like Brando
or become cynical like Bogart.
The treasure of finding slivers of light
between noir blinds
is like finding new love when you’re looking
for a good book; it’s all a beautiful surprise.
I will never be as cool as Grace Kelly
or as wanted as Marilyn
and I don’t seem to have a sense of right
like Cooper or Stewart.
Who would I have been then?
Bette Davis or Rita Hayworth, or maybe
Ingrid Bergman with plenty of smarts
but questionable choices.
I’d probably be a contract player, a
character actor, a dancer in the chorus line.
God knows I’m not enough of a looker
to be a lead or enough of a writer
to figure out what comes next.

The sun held sway at lunch.
A cool breeze pushed aside warm air.
It was almost perfect.
There was a deep rumbling hum.
I thought maybe there was roadwork nearby
but it seems after searching
for the disturbance, it was coming from
inside, where I had a lingering pang,
a weird dark space where sounds of the day
were lost to echoes of imagined promise.
I ignored the passing flutter of birdsong
for the voice I hear in my dreams,
the one that shamelessly declares
things most people scoff at:
love and passion and ardent assertions
that all will be well.

There’s a video of Monet painting.
It’s over 100 years old so I suppose
it’s got a bit of magic attached.
The visual of him creating.
He looks dapper and somewhat
lackadaisical, glancing at a pond
and putting a few strokes on a canvas.
Was he vain and enjoyed being filmed
or was he posturing and swiping the canvas
as he thought would showcase him best
or did he have a loose way of working?
The film can only show a bit of rendering
and not the full image he had in mind.
So we have to look and imagine
all we can’t see.

Today’s soundtrack was
a rhythmless bout of noisy birds,
the same three notes on a piano on repeat,
lots of big breaths before little epiphanies,
Chaka Khan, onions sizzling frying in oil,
maybe four full laughs, and an odd twang.

Sometimes the orchestra is made of
frogs, sometimes flutes.
Wednesday is a roiling boiling zydeco.

I think about that kitchen a lot,
tiny and warm and the source of magical
breads and sustenance for half a dozen
people over 40 years.
I can see the old white enamel appliances.
Hear the crackle of the gas stove.
Smell the ever-present coffee brewing.
A floor slightly tacky with years of mopping,
road salt at winter, and flour and oil spills.
A formica table with mismatched chairs
and somehow, elbow to elbow was cozy.
The fridge had covered glass dishes
and meat wrapped in butcher paper.
I can see the narrow, stuffed pantry shelves
and feel how the cellar store sticks
as you grab potatoes from the landing.
The darkness below was thick
and there was a smell of pets, shoe shine,
must, and earthen floors.
There’s light from a small window
overlooking a sliver of yard filled with
a creeping garden and a few lawn chairs.
You can hear the clock chiming from the hall
and see part of the sofa and paintings
of the living room through the doorway.
It’s a supremely welcoming place,
this kitchen. It felt like another country
when I was a little girl. It was the time before
such rooms became instant and sterile,
a time of newspapers and aprons.