The spark has gone missing in her voice. Had we known, we would have savored it more. But no—that’s not true. We did savor her gaiety and the way she stood, hands on hips watching her beloved dog, Annie, swimming in the creek, pretending to be a beaver. Every time we paused, hands on hip, to soak in the pleasure between Annie and her lady, we knew all the way through our elbow-bridges and heart-boxes this was the way of Earth.
Water, pasture, joy. Sheep, dog, bliss.
We thought the Annie factor would last longer. She was just turning six. And even in dog years (three times four point two, plus 2 times six, plus one times seven) this meant so many more creeks to swim, so many more TV shows to watch beside her lady. Instead, something she ate, or something she drank shut down her liver and kidneys. And now the spark is gone.
Pull me with you.
The kitchen table has become a design studio. Beck is giving up on finding the word, Fit, in one of the thirty-one semi-ruined books we have allowed ourselves to cut into. Welcome to Whitewash and Co. We are making paper collages from my poetry and fitting them into glass-tile pendants.
Select one “F” from the 1950’s reading book with crayoned and torn pages. Add one it from a Crisco-soaked cook book. And if you stick your tongue between your teeth the way mother, aunt and grandmother do, then the two shall blend together.
Next, the poetry lesson. “Into” is not the same as “in to.” Both Finn and Beck would rather not hear the entire by-laws of poetic slant in regards to prepositions. They quickly cut to the chase by asking the poet for more lemonade. While lemonade is being poured, someone slyly glues In and to together onto the collage. And now we have myriad slants involving how it feels to be hollow.
Fit/Into the hollow.
The way it feels to lose your dog; to come up short with whatever brought you sparks. Sister, herding, standing hip-to-hip.
Please, someone: carve me out . . .