pantoum's Diaryland Diary

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DECADENCE

Father's Day is always so strange now that my father has died. I try to think about him, his role in my life and what I'm grateful for, but it mostly just feels like a big hole now that he used to fill with his goodness and his badness and his deep connection with me, for better or for worse. Since last Sunday was Father's Day and this past Sunday was my father's birthday, he's been on my mind a lot lately.

Had a good weekend. Pottergrrl came down for a visit and we had a wonderful time—ate really good food and I was happy to get to show her a few of my favorite places. We fed ducks at the Gardens, saw butterflies at the butterfly house (plus a huge Atlas moth), took some gorgeous nature photos, played the guitar. She said my voice sounds like a cello, which made me very happy. And I think she has convinced me to try my hand at baking again because she brought down some homemade rosemary olive bread that was so good that I'm willing to consider baking just so I can have it on a regular basis. Mmm. She promised the recipe soon.

This rarely happens, but we made a meal so good on Saturday night that I would not change a single thing about it. Fresh spinach base, then thin rounds of very tart goat cheese, then anchovy-rich Caesar dressing, then balsamic vinegar, then roasted pine nuts, then roasted asparagus topped with lemon and lemon zest and a little melted butter with lemon juice, then lightly blackened grilled salmon flavored with essence of lemon and topped with fresh dill and lemon zest. And a nice bottle of chardonnay. And oh man was it delicious. So good. And pure decadence.

Went to an author party for a woman in my writing group that night. She's just published her second novel and it's really good. Got a copy for Pottergrrl to read and got to say hello to some folks I haven't seen in a while.

Anyway. Gotta go to a meeting now but here's a poem:

FOR A FATHER
By Elise Partridge

Remember after work you grabbed our skateboard,
crouched like a surfer, wingtips over the edge;
wheels clacketing down the pocked macadam,
you veered almost straight into the neighbor's hedge?
We ran after you laughing, shouting, Wait!

Or that August night you swept us to the fair?
The tallest person boarding the ferris wheel,
you rocked our car right when we hit the apex
above the winking midway, to make us squeal.
Next we raced you to the games, shouting, Wait!

At your funeral, relatives and neighbors,
shaking our hands, said, "So young to have died!"
But we've dreamt you're just skating streets away,
striding the fairgrounds toward a wilder ride.
And we're still straggling behind, shouting, Wait—!

10:28 a.m. - 2005-06-27

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