“And sore must be the storm…”

To Begin, your Nora poetry corner:

  1. On impermanence:

“See? Everything is gonna break.

See?

It’s broken.”

2. On reliability:

Ever at here,

The recycling is too.

3. On the unimaginable:

-What’s gonna be Breeny’s bed?

-Maybe later when he gets to Cottonwood Heights, I can share my snowflake room?

-We can borrow my bed, and he can bring his pacifier if you want to? I brought the Breeny cards to Breeny. Isn’t that interesting? I know it, Daddy… I love playing fetch.

On Back Transport:

I just don’t know how to figure this out.

— -

So.

On Sunday, 26 July, a beloved Karp nurse practitioner said she thinks we can send Breeny back to our hospital in Pocatello. Back transport. To Portneuf. To Home.

There’s nothing we’re doing for him here, that he can’t do there.

Grow Breeny. Wean, Breeny. Eat, sleep, poop, Breeny.

Okay.

Up. Down.

Up.

Down.

Rollercoasters are SAFE, y’all. Rollercoasters are Planned. They have TRACKS, y’all. They have beginnings, middles, ends. Mortal*ss People at the controls. Something predictable. Something you opt in on. For fun. For an escape from the ordinary.

Do not get me started on Yon Rollercoaster Metaphor.

It is 9:30 p.m. in Utah. Is your 3 year old fast asleep? Or has she rebounded from bed tucks, back scritches, stories, lullabies, sleepy (new) motivational toy friends? Is she lying in the hallway singing,

“ The laundry…Old MacDonald had a Mass Squash.. Look at MeeEEeee…I totally forgot!! When Breeny comes home! He needs his whale preserver!”

My pain is white-hot.

Nora is ready to enroll in the Early Learning Center.

We talk because we are

mortal: words

are not signs, they are years.

Saying what they say,

the names we speak

say time: they say us,

we are the names of time.

To talk is human.

-Octavio Paz (via a thick book, passed to me by my cello friend, on the occasion of our violin friend’s birthday)