I can’t remember his name but he seems familiar somehow. Vaguely familiar. Everything is vague these days. In truth, it’s been that way for some time. The memory has always been sketchy, except for poetry, I can still recite the Sonnets and pages upon pages of Dickenson and Donne. But everything else is filtered through a scrim.
I don’t get agitated about not ‘knowing’ details anymore, I just trust my gut. One knows intuitively which meals will be disagreeable. One knows intuitively which guests antagonize the spirits. I’ve found the staff responds well to tantrums, ever eager to maintain an air of calm. A good shout and some crying is good to relieve stress they say. The garden here is also lovely for that.
8 min, April 18, 2014 @ Queens, NY
prompt from The Heart of a Woman by Maya Angelou
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