We did watch most of the game last night though neither of us had a team in it. It did turn out to be a good game. Not as stressful as watching the Steelers in A Super Bowl, which is not for the faint of heart. The rest of the weekend was good. Saturday I took part in a great Writing Workshop that was gratifying in so many ways. I actually submitted a couple of pieces for feedback. Something I haven't done in awhile and the critique, on-point. Hung out with my 16 year old, who I'd forgotten turned 17 last month. How many days, months, will it take to sink in I wonder? We went out for tacos, went thrifting, grocery shopped for the house and for my mother. I edited, but not much. Last night I read through The Black Poets, A New Anthology Edited by Dudley Randall. In search of poems that leaned towards love since Valentine's Day is tomorrow. We don't really make a big deal of it since our anniversary is a week after. It was always for our girls, giant cards and candy of course! This morning, I came out with a little piece based of the morning news and the phrase, "gapers delay." Had to hold the idea until I got, with this mind, a sieve lately. Ha! It is about love, of course. Anyway, without further ado, here is one from Gwendolyn Brooks: When You Have Forgotten Sunday: The Love Story **YOU MAY HAVE TO ADJUST YOUR VOLUME**
when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS —And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday, And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday— When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed, Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon Looking off down the long street To nowhere, Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why? And if-Monday-never-had-to-come— When you have forgotten that, I say, And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell, And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang; And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner, That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles Or chicken and rice And salad and rye bread and tea And chocolate chip cookies— I say, when you have forgotten that, When you have forgotten my little presentiment That the war would be over before they got to you; And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed, And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end Bright bedclothes, Then gently folded into each other— When you have, I say, forgotten all that, Then you may tell, Then I may believe You have forgotten me well.