Summer Kitchen

Below is a beautiful poem by Donald Hall called Summer Kitchen which he wrote after the death of his wife Jane. It reminds me of my childhood, particularly my mother’s place in it. She, too, saw miracles in the ordinary.

In June’s high light she stood at the sink
With a glass of wine,
And listened for the bobolink,
And crushed garlic in late sunshine.

I watched her cooking, from my chair.
She pressed her lips
Together, reached for kitchenware,
And tasted sauce from her fingertips.

“It’s ready now. Come on,” she said.
“You light the candle.”
We ate, and talked, and went to bed,
And slept. It was a miracle.

Reading Pains

Although I'm much closer to the beginning of Will Kostakis' The Sidekicks than I am the end I can already tell that this book is gonna cost me something along the way.

"...I want to say Isaac lived a full life and retroactively justify him not being here by saying he lived more in his sixteen years than most ever would, but that isn't true. He didn't live enough, he didn't love enough, he didn't see enough, and if there's a lesson in all this—do more. You don't know how long you have. Do what makes you happy. Live, love and be remarkable."