i got a christmas card from the winery,
one of four i've received this year
which doesn't bother me it's been this way
for years. maybe i'll get a couple more
after the holiday, my friends are like me,
irresponsible, late and forgetful.
i've been trying to straighten up the apartment
on christmas eve, it's not going to happen
as i saw it a few days ago when i started
slacking off. you don't know how big a mess you can make
unless you let it go and let it go
way past human levels of tolerance. this i'm good at.
over the stove in the little cabinet there's a box
that i rummaged through a little while ago
looking for suitable nails or screws or pegs
to help me hold up a shelf in a cheap bookcase.
what i needed wasn't there. it's a box
of things mostly left over from my father:
nail clippers, magnifying glasses, an old
travel alarm clock in a case of cracked red leather.
stuff like all sorts of screws and fasteners
except for something that would help me
hold up my books. there's even a tool for the repair
of screen doors and windows. i remember using that
while we lived in our house, before my dad died, before our divorce,
the forclosure. and i kept it, as i do most things small enough
to find a space in my clutter, things discovered
years later when memories change. signposts to ghost towns.
in that little box in the cabinet over the stove
i also found a package of powder to mix with water
to make hummingbird food. maria loved hummingbirds,
i bought her calendars and books and pictures - all sorts of
hummingbirds. before we left southern california
we rented a house where we hung a hummingbird feeder
from the roof of the patio, and it seemed like a dream
of hummingbirds, they'd hover before you, inches before you.
they'd come, they'd return. we'd take pictures, stand by them,
like in a dream. i've already tossed that package of food in the trash,
after living here four years, looked at it and chucked it today,
christmas eve. it took four years. maybe i could have bought a feeder
and tried to lure some hummingbirds onto my small patio,
i guess that's what i was thinking years ago, when i unpacked
and kept the makings of their food. the whole thing made me think
of my father's eyeglasses, a pair i left behind when we were forced
to leave the house. we left so much there. there's no end to this.



�2005 by John Eivaz