The lines on my palms worry fathers and all good men
February 7, 2009
When I said that all things good and bad must end, that everything regresses towards a mean, I forgot to say I hope this mean gets ever higher. Graphically this would look like a slope– oh yes, a steeper climb as the years pile up– but after each hailstorm, each blue eyed sky this I’d want: an ever cosier home to roost in, so that where we bought our first couch 20 years later there are glass figurines, cat hairs, baby food stains, Dylan memorabilia.
I forgot to say: though I have problems with possession, wanting neither to cage nor be caged, I too want someone to come home to. Not to have them waiting with soup on the stove and fluffy pyjamas, but to be a well-known shirt tail flopping off the bus in front, recumbent potato so sleepy he didn’t kick his shoes off, tickler of the cat and raiser of my toilet seat, which really I don’t care about as long as he doesn’t pee like a sprinkler.
