Getting ready.
The other day I mentioned to my adult class of Sheriff’s who I am instructing on the art of composition and rhetoric that if my husband and I were in line for heaven or wherever, I might turn to him and say, “I’m not ready yet. Wait for me.” Then I blurted out that my husband has cancer stage 4 and that his body is fighting and feeling the effects some days. I watched as I noticed even the hardest and most cynical of the deputies ranging in age from 20 to late 40’s pause, perhaps thinking of their wife or a loved one and watched their shoulders tense up as if to momentarily reinstate their grip on being tough together men, “we understand.” Not a word was said to acknowledge what I said but I knew everyone in that room heard me from the sheriff glancing at the tightly packed lunch with fresh fruit which the guys ribbed him about his wife packing the lunch to the sheriff who wrote about keeping his young daughter safe.

Thank you for listening.

Ode to Concrete

Concrete is softer than I be
He said to me sideways
Not turning his head
Yet I loved and knew him well.
Concrete is softer than me
He said again
Now turning his body to me
We be concrete I am the mud
Holding the concrete down
You are the glue sticking to the sole of my shoes
Reminding me you are the hard finish
I am the soft touch
To hold the matter together
So we can do what matters.