At the familiar

At the familiar task of cradling Dash and swaying, trying to sway him into morning nap. Vaughn gone to the bank with Meme; KC drying her hair; all of us immersed in the morning routine. Sonic Youth on the stereo, "Wildflower Soul," as the words—heard or misheard—sway in mind, arrange themselves.

                        See-through child eyes
                        as old as magic
                        spinning gold
                        leaves fall in
                        to the water

Dash's head rests against my chest, softly placed under my shoulder blade. We move toward the window by the front door. The American flags that dot the neighbor's fence point to the ground. Drooping, staring down. Tired of wars. Tired of the word war. Empty rhetoric of wars against abstractions, as if abstractions could be eliminated. As if wars weren't waged against lives. As if innocents were casualties rarely or never at all. KC steps down the stairs; Dash lifts his head just enough to notice her. He won't be napping now. KC takes him and I head upstairs; my turn to shower. Turning light and water on to shave, I think of my depression-era grandmother, Mary (Messina) Keeney. How she lived detesting the slightest bit of waste, whether a single drop of water or the last bit of creamy Italian dressing in the container. Though the disposable container itself wasn't recognized as waste. Remember the excesses of the 80s when my step-father's extremism about lights being left on around the house seemed like an anachronism. Remember seeing Long Day's Journey into Night with my Aunt Marie and Uncle Sebbie. The father in the play with his obsessiveness about shutting off the lights around the house. How my Uncle had remarked what a different way of life we have now. Didn't seem so different to me, but I understood his point, how it was right at the time. But now we've gone forward into the past. Judicious use of lighting. Turn it off when you're not in the room. What we pay for water. What we pay for power. After shaving I switched off the lights before switching on the fan and stepping into the shower. Now I stand pushing the last drops of shampoo into my hair over my scalp. Suds like words pushed from a mind into a mouth. How needfully thoughts get silently worded. How subtly words get tongue-slapped into being.