Because she asked, I altered this photo for Rose Hunter, a poet who lives in Mexico every chance she gets. Beneath the surface is my photo from this blog’s header. The horses come from her. Lately she’s swapped photos for her words.
I learn that the man who signs my paychecks was once a little boy with a matchbook collection. He tells me this while showing me lost-until-now photos of his father from the 1920s. I ask, how does it make you feel to see these photos of your father for the first time? He says it made him remember his matchbook collection that blew away when the door to his family’s storage trailer was left unlocked one winter years ago.
My cell phone rings – a friend calling about his first night on the job managing a 24 hour call center, a job he had never wanted to accept. I’m braced to hear complaints about calming angry customers, but instead — this: The lady from Ohio ordering a meat processor and three extra blades at 2:35 a. m. gave birth to a baby while talking to him on the phone. He called 911 in her home town, stayed on the phone and reminded her to breathe. He got to hear the baby cry. It was a healthy baby boy.
A friend I’ve not seen for some weeks sends an email today. Did she want to talk, I query. Instead of replying she tells me about standing in a field of snow, shouting at the sky. The night was dark, the moon was gone. This is what it must feel like, she writes, to stand on the corner of 4th and Exposition holding a cardboard sign: Anything Would Help.