It is raining outside right now, has been for about an hour. At first, it was a deluge, so thick I couldn't see the houses across the street from my window. Now, it is light, flickering rain, as if the clouds are wet bathing suits hung on a line to dry. Drip, drip . . . drip . . drip, drip . . .
If you have been reading this blog for the past couple months, you know that I have been struggling with the world. There's been more rain than sun in my days. Yet, I get reminders every day that there are "good bones" in my life (to borrow Maggie Smith's term). A rabbit nibbling in my backyard when I get home. My son, so smart and funny. Ice cream on a warm evening. My wife, mercurially beautiful. A great poem. My daughter, bright in kindness.
Saint Marty just needs to keep reminding himself of these good bones.
by: Maggie Smith
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I've shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I'll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty-percent terrible, and that's a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
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