September 27: Pledge My Friendship, a Note, Terry Godbey, "Prize," New Cartoon

"Joy!  Aranea!  Nellie!" he began.  "Welcome to the barn cellar.  You have chosen a hallowed doorway from which to string your webs.  I think it is only fair to tell you that I was devoted to your mother.  I owe my very life to her.  She was brilliant, beautiful, and loyal to the end.  I shall always treasure her memory.  To you, her daughters, I pledge my friendship, forever and ever."

 I love this little speech Wilbur delivers at the end of the book.  When I was a kid, reading Charlotte's Web for the first time, I needed this passage.  It somehow made me feel like Charlotte wasn't really gone.  Wilbur would keep her alive.  Always.

I received a note from one of my best friends today.  He was thanking me for a birthday gift I sent him a week or so ago.  For some reason, I haven't been able to connect with him for a while.  Both our lives have gone in different directions.  He lives downstate now, below the Mackinac Bridge.  The last time I spoke with him was right after my brother passed away last May.  He was the only person who was able to make me laugh at the time.

Even though we don't talk often, he's still a part of my life.  The next time we see each other, whenever that is, we will pick up right where we left off.  I know that.  I'm luckier than Wilbur.  I will see my friend again.  Talk to him on the phone.  Get e-mails from him.  Notes in the mail.  True friendship lasts, through long separations, months of silence, missed connections.

My friend's note made me smile this afternoon.  I reread it tonight, and it made me smile again.  Imagine Wilbur getting a message from Charlotte somehow.  (I know she's dead.  Just play along.)  Maybe a passing duck or migrating swallow with a word.  One word.  Wilbur would be doing backflips in his manure pile.

I promised last night I wasn't going to talk about my son's birthday anymore.  I lied.  The poem I have from Terry Godbey is about her son's literal birthday, among other things.  Perfectly appropriate on the day of my son's birthday party.

Sorry, guys.  Saint Marty's blog.  Saint Marty rules.

Prize

by:  Terry Godbey

I strutted my new pounds, hard-won
as war medals, flaunted the globe
that was you.  My breasts, spread
with blueberry-jam veins, swelled
like flowers in time-release photos.
I gulped milk by the carton,
rested and waited for bloodstains
like all the other times,
but when three months had passed
I made my pilgrimage
to the baby store, stroked soft cottons
and flannels, dared to imagine
the unimaginable.

My body flared and prepared
for your birthday, and near the end,
swayback, I had to waddle
and couldn't tie my shoes
but child,
I could balance a tea cup on you!

And then you surprised me
four weeks early but strong,
gorging on blue-white milk.
I nursed you at parks and plazas
and parties, but now my breasts
are covered like nuns,
the cries of my womb hushed.

I no longer pray
for this body,
I prize it, I praise it
for letting you live, son,
for letting you give me life.

Confessions of Saint Marty