Another Dog Year, for which I am Thankful
November 25, Wisconsin
Dear Little Dove,
The house simmers and bakes. The poultry laced steam makes Solo lose himself in the comings and goings of his friends. People will arrive, and he will be in his element. His favorite moment would be for all the people that he knows in one room. His purpose, more than any other he may give life to, is companionship. Today is a special day, one year for him, since his journey between fortresses and villages in his fateful chest. He prefers to recount the story like a great sea adventure. It was just a plane ride, and it was only a quarter of the hours my journey took as baggage. I know he arrived in an airplane the same as I, but he weaves a tale of the high seas I would like to invent as a writer. Can he really believe it? His words are a cloth sewn in pieces to become one like the guipil Sera weaves for Little Dove. I realize that photographs and poems can do this too. My songs were cut short long ago, but Solo’s chording to my howls inspires me to write for me, for us, for you. I realize and I scold myself that I write less since I discovered pillows, but some days a sentimental heart can still break through.