Done

I turned in my thesis this afternoon. It was very anti-climactic because I had to go home and write comments for 19 poems.

In the evening, we had our final fiction-workshop gathering at our workshop leader's house. Laura had catered Mexican food, bute before dinner, the fellows in our class wrestled and fenced with her 9 year-old son. We paid a visit to the shack-cabin (or shackbin) behind Laura's house and spied a wasp's nest. I admired the raccoon skull just outside the cabin. It was cool to the touch, and there were spider-webs in where I presume the brain had been. Laura's son is really lucky to grow up in the country. All that space, trees, and clean air. It's a nice county just outside of Ann Arbor. The highlight of the evening was the remote-control whoopee cushion that Laura's son stashed below the dinner table. Times have really changed; I only knew of the pink rubber ones. One of the guys managed to sneak the control away from him later in the evening, and we had our own fun watching him guess who had it. I'm pleased to say I was one of the top suspects.

Later we hung out on the porch of one of our classmates and drank tequila, tea, water, Coronas. We talked about drugs and our desolate futures. I was trying to grade when a young fellow rollerbladed over and asked for water. We refilled his bottle and then offered him a tequila shot. He sucked the lime, licked the salt, and downed the tequlia with gusto.

When I got home, I found my mom on the futon in tears. Her favorite uncle, the one she called "Father" in Malay, had passed away suddenly. He was the last of the Wee sibilngs. My grandmother was the eldest. Her third youngest brother died in 1987. Then she died a year later. And two others passed on within the next 12 years. It's good to know they're with each other again. But it's been hard - my mom and I so far away from home, not being able to help with the wake and the funeral, not being able to say good-bye.

"We know little
We can tell less
But one thing I know
One thing I can tell
I will see you again in Jerusalem
Which is of such beauty
No matter what country you come from
You will be more at home there
Than ever with father or mother
Than even with lover or friend
And once we're within her borders
Death will hunt us in vain."

~from Four Poems in One by Anne Porter

Posted by Monoceros at April 18, 2005 11:14 PM