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My sister has recently pulled the twigs and leaves and ladybugs of Maine from her dreads and has driven down to stay with us awhile. She has come to NC, I believe, under the pretense that she is my daily assistant. Folding laundry at my side, preparing healthy dinners of fiddlehead spaghetti, and sweeping up Silas when his whining (it’s this new independence thing he’s into) gets to me. And pointing out, whether I like it or not, that I am an unfaltering stream of negativity.

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Last week, a very dear friend of mine received some shocking news. Her parent’s home had burned to the ground. It had exploded. In the middle of the day. Something to do with a random bolt of lightning and an underground gas line. The flames taking everything, including their pets. Thank God, no one was hurt.

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I am, at best, a mediocre poet.

Less than mediocre. A non-poet. The converse of poet. The negative space that might exist if a poet was to implode or was sucked into a black hole or was acted upon by some terrific and terrifying laws of physics and mysticism. A stock broker.

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Tomorrow marks Silas’s six month birthday and I’m more excited about it than I thought I would be. We’ve even bought him gifts. I’m serving a half-a-cake. We’re inviting a few friends over and opening a bottle of champagne. I’m even planning to incorporate 1/2 birthdays into our regular celebratory traditions.

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