Observations from a holiday interspersed with notes to her lover (revised)

November 26, 2003 11:25 a.m. My mother met me at the airport. I wanted it to be you even though I left you this morning with sleep in your eyes three states away. It’s been eight hours since the last time I hugged you. I miss your shoulders and your smell and the way we talk in museums. 12:10 p.m. I am here to have Thanksgiving with my biological relatives Thanksgiving is a sham holiday you are my home, and as much family as I could want or need 3:40 p.m. my relations went their own way to pay respect to memorials to politicians and their acts of violence I feasted my soul on icons Bodhisattvas and Buddhas 10:15 p.m. I tried to call on beauty there was no answer I played on my drum tonight I had not touched it since summer it is smaller than I remembered fake fire in the fireplace black satin to my toes a not very convincing princess Yesterday was the first time in weeks you turned adjectives to pronouns. “Hey Beautiful. Hey, come here, Amazing.” The words resent you. And I in my angsty self-awareness imagine they resent me for being unworthy of them. You scold me for it. November 27, 2003 5:30pm the wine is very red everyone is watching football I’ve read all the books I brought I’m waiting for them to go to bed so I can go to bed or for a call to get through P.S. we sure fooled those Indians. 10:45 p.m. I want to drum for your anger I want to drum for love of you the rest of the house is sleeping send a prayer to the space and I long for the passionate, raging—sometimes peaceful— magic we weave between us November 28, 2003 4:40 p.m. Security did not blink at my drum or at my miniscule pocketknife next to my flight it says, “On Time” I want to go home but I’m going to Brooklyn it is home when you are in it soon soon 5:35 p.m. the man across the aisle is bald as an egg on top with dark brown fluff all around a taxi will be waiting for me in Queens in Brooklyn I will sleep as long as I can November 29, 2003 12:30 p.m. The man on the subway looks like Yosemite Sam. His voice takes over the car miming a conversation between himself and his mother, “YOU CAN’T SEE HER! Oh please, Momma. I WANT HER SO BAD. NO! Please, oh please, her ass smells SO GOOD, Momma.” I cower despite myself. He stares into my chest, wants to sit next to me and to call me Judy Garland, wants to tell me about how hard his life is. I am not Judy Garland. I care about suffering, but not his. He scares me, if he didn’t I’d give him some of my groceries, but as is I bolt off the G train a stop early. I wish I was carrying the knife you gave me.