Croup, croup. Still sick but back at work. Unsteadied by my adverse reaction to the Nyquil, which apparently conflicted with my thyroid medication and put me in a dizzying tailspin (note from my doctor: Must Read Fine Print!). It’s like the time I was on morphine after surgery except without the fantastical dreams.
Croup, croup. I threw away the Nyquil and at night my husband made me big mugs of brandy with sugar and hot water. (Last time I was sick he washed my hair while I soaked in a hot tub.) Last night he kept checking on me to drink down the brandy potion, which I did, in bed, while watching the Golden Globes. Someone else probably knows what Angelina Jolie has tatooed on her back, but I don’t. Also, I’m glad to see Forest Whitaker win, and glad to know I’m not the only one with a droopy eye.
Croup, croup. It was –11 degrees here this morning but we have our first real snow so everything seems crisp and clean; everything seems blue and white and cream here from my view on top of the city. I bought Halls Menthol-Lyptus Vapor-Action cough drops, in its Scandinavian-tinted blue bag, just to match the mood.
*****
I read this poem this weekend and was startled by the truth of it. That, or the earlier Nyquil made me extra receptive.
Explaining a Husband
They say two people aren’t always two people.
That’s what I’ve heard. Sometimes, two people,
They’re the same person in two places.
And it’s not that they have to love each other or hate each other.
They still have to be together.
If not, they spend their whole lives, every day,
Looking around at everybody they pass,
On the chance that one person might look back
And hope that in the flicker of that moment
They’ll both know it’s them.
We’re like that, I think, he and I, that husband of mine.
We’re like that now, even if we didn’t start that way.
We used to love each other.
But now it’s something else, something more.
We know each other’s life. And when we talk,
We are each other’s story.
by Alberto Rios, from his new book The Theater of Night (© 2006, Copper Canyon Press)
Croup, croup. I threw away the Nyquil and at night my husband made me big mugs of brandy with sugar and hot water. (Last time I was sick he washed my hair while I soaked in a hot tub.) Last night he kept checking on me to drink down the brandy potion, which I did, in bed, while watching the Golden Globes. Someone else probably knows what Angelina Jolie has tatooed on her back, but I don’t. Also, I’m glad to see Forest Whitaker win, and glad to know I’m not the only one with a droopy eye.
Croup, croup. It was –11 degrees here this morning but we have our first real snow so everything seems crisp and clean; everything seems blue and white and cream here from my view on top of the city. I bought Halls Menthol-Lyptus Vapor-Action cough drops, in its Scandinavian-tinted blue bag, just to match the mood.
*****
I read this poem this weekend and was startled by the truth of it. That, or the earlier Nyquil made me extra receptive.
Explaining a Husband
They say two people aren’t always two people.
That’s what I’ve heard. Sometimes, two people,
They’re the same person in two places.
And it’s not that they have to love each other or hate each other.
They still have to be together.
If not, they spend their whole lives, every day,
Looking around at everybody they pass,
On the chance that one person might look back
And hope that in the flicker of that moment
They’ll both know it’s them.
We’re like that, I think, he and I, that husband of mine.
We’re like that now, even if we didn’t start that way.
We used to love each other.
But now it’s something else, something more.
We know each other’s life. And when we talk,
We are each other’s story.
by Alberto Rios, from his new book The Theater of Night (© 2006, Copper Canyon Press)
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