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Addendum to an Ode: A Reflection on the Eve of the Second Day of July

I know not how many more of these milestones we may have together, but for the twenty-two that we have been blessed with, I wish to take this opportunity to update an ode written on this occasion last year.  Addendum to ode, follows.  The self-portrait attached is a relic from the days before the term “selfie” was coined.
For living up to the promise of being by my side “in sickness and in health;” 
For researching every conceivable permutation of any ailment affecting me — imaginary or otherwise; 
For smiling at me while you say that I will outlive everyone I know;
For permitting me to revel in my dark moods for only so long;
For finding something funny to say in the most unexpected of times;
For offering to switch parental roles to be the ‘bad guy’ every once in a while;  
For reminding me that the latest parental challenge isn’t quite the end of the world just yet;
For being an incredibly caring father to my children;
And for anticipating all sorts of needs and wants for them – and for fulfilling them sometimes even before the request is made;
For being indulgent on my most difficult days;
And for putting up a fight every so often so things never get old;
For occasionally letting me get a taste of my own medicine (yikes!);
For being a coach, mentor, and mover on my career-related endeavors;
For thinking of every eventuality before it occurs (most of the time!);
For compensating for any lack of planning by being an agreeable companion to proposed plans;
For never shying away from leading us in prayer upon request;
For having the ability to speak to anyone anywhere;
For being a master griller every summer;
For thinking of the birds and the bird-feeders, and better yet, the joy of watching them through our kitchen window;
For putting up the Christmas lights on the tree in our front yard, and insisting that electric blue is way better than those multi-colored lights;
For being a master builder, painter, landscaper, wall-art hanger, and handyman extraordinaire;
For paying the bills with your phone – forget the computer! 
For always driving me anywhere I want to go;
For telling me to have a good time when I’m out with friends — and then texting me to ask for address just in case I need a ride back;
For all these reasons and many more unspoken ones, I raise a glass to you, Sweet Husband;
Here’s a Twenty-One Gun salute to you, on this our Twenty-Second Anniversary!

Ode to My Husband on the Second Day of July

July 2, 2014 Smriti D. Isaac

For catching my eye across the room, and coming over to admire the artwork  on the walls of a common friend’s house;
For introducing me to the songs of Cat Stevens, Leonard Cohen, Gordon Lightfoot, and Supertramp;
For loaning me your copy of Owen Meany and The Road Less Traveled;
For showing me your recipe for egg-fried rice;
For taking me to all your favorite haunts for Kathi Rolls, Fried Fish, Tandoori Chicken, and the best Udipi in town;
For giving me more advice than I’d ever expected (or needed) – on people and places in the big city;
For offering me a helping hand and a kind ear always;
For casually strumming your guitar and singing ‘Bobby McGee’ for me;
For inviting me to the many house-parties at your many friends’ houses;
For sharing your love of the theatre, sports, and fitness;
For pressing upon me your trusty old Ambassador car – so I could have an easy ride in to work;
For embracing my family as your own;
For asking me if I truly had any faith in a May-December union;
For leaving your well-established life to follow me to another land;
For being an able provider and protector at all times – even when I thought I didn’t need it;
For your quirky sense of humor, and for teaching me to be light-hearted;
For your generosity to friends and strangers, and your kindness to all;
For being an amazingly loving and competent father to my two children;
For forgiving my impatience and petulance – among a thousand other shortcomings;
For loving me, encouraging me, and believing in me – even when I didn’t in myself;
For being a handyman extraordinaire, and for building everything I could ever conceive of;
For traveling the world with me, and indulging my every interest;
For making every friend of mine your own; and for letting every friend of yours become a friend of mine;
For sharing my love of God, and accompanying me to church and small-groups over the years;
For being a caring person who is sweet and sensitive;
For all these reasons and many more unspoken ones, I raise a glass to you, Sweet Husband;
Here’s a Twenty-One Gun salute to you, on this our Twenty-First Anniversary!
Note on picture below:  Dug up from the annals of history in commemoration of the second day of July.  Circa early 1993 in New Delhi, India, a self-portrait.  Later that summer, we were sharing the same last name. 

circa1993

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“The silence that precedes an aperture opening…”

[I want to be near you]

BY OLI HAZZARD

I want to be near you | via nearness generally | an app “chance” rather than “skill” | determining the tax obligations of the feathers as | one falls into the pixel | on the white water | interlude. A grid is applied to the | field which dissolves into | the screen harmlessly beneath a summer storm. Brace. The silence that precedes an aperture opening | Left hands of right-handed engineers flensed skittish with false lines. These tears or weak areas | in crying fire are lined with a very transparent low weight enamel found in the company (from the Latin

com-, “with”,

and panis, “bread”) of other expressions | of space before choice under an ornamental plain. Since the location of paradise seems to be roughly that of Japan, a grid is applied | to the image from which the object has been extracted | and begins to spurt. As Emerson says, lyrical, not epical or even tragic | Suspension of certain clauses within the document is permitted when in cases of rebellion or the public safety may require it | The canvas may be folded in on itself 7 times. A sheet of melinex is | laid over the area of loss on the landscape | not the face | dolled by what it would release.

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“The month after the month they say is cruel, is and is not”

May By Jonathan Galassi

The backyard apple tree gets sad so soon,   
takes on a used-up, feather-duster look   
within a week.
The ivy’s spring reconnaissance campaign   
sends red feelers out and up and down   
to find the sun.
Ivy from last summer clogs the pool,   
brewing a loamy, wormy, tea-leaf mulch   
soft to the touch
and rank with interface of rut and rot.
The month after the month they say is cruel   
is and is not.
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Love to Love You, Baby! #Mother’s Day 2015

Love to Love You, Baby! #Mother’s Day 2015

   

 

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“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…?”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…?”

  

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Crossroads in the Country: Any Which Way But Lose!

Crossroads in the Country:  Any Which Way But Lose! Out in the countryside in the great North American Upper Midwest.

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Spring Has Sprung, the Grass is Riz…

Out in the countryside in the great North American Upper Midwest.

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“…we had thrown one stone too many, by the handful…”

Everything

by Lawson Fusao Inada
When the river rose that year, we were beside it
and ourselves with fear; not that it would do anything
to us, mind you—our hopes were much too high for that—
but there was always that remote, unacknowledged possibility
that we had thrown one stone too many, by the handful,
and that by some force of nature, as they called it,
it might rain and rain for days, as it had been,
with nothing to hold it and the structure back,
and with everything to blame, including children
on into late summer and all the years ahead,
when it would be ours to bear, to do much more with
than remember and let it go at that—some mud,
some driftwood, some space of sky as a reminder
before getting on with the world again;
no, the balance was ours to share, and responsibility
for rivers had as much to do with anything
as rain on the roof and sweet fish for supper,
as forests and trembling and berries at sunrise;
thus it was, then, that we kept our watch,
that we kept our wits about us and all the respect
we could muster, sitting in silence,
sleeping in shifts, and when the fire died,
everyone was there to keep it alive;
somehow, though, in the middle of the night,
despite our vigils, our dreams, our admonitions,
our structure, our people, and all our belongings
broke free with a shudder and went drifting away—
past the landing, the swing, the anchored cages,
down through the haunted rapids, never to be found;
when we awoke that morning, the sun was back,
the river had receded under our measuring stick,
and everything had been astonishingly replaced,
including people and pets, the structure intact,
but in the solitude of all our faces as we ate,
the knowledge was there, of what we all had done,
and that everything would never be the same.