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Hawaiian burgers and bad dreams

How utterly pitiful it is that I spent the night dreaming about Hawaiian hamburgers. About the delicious blend of beef and coleslaw and pineapple, a tad of red onion if one is in the mood, the delight of the first bite discovered between toasted wholemeal pitta bread, the pure groan of ultimate satisfaction. I recited my dream first thing to H and he looked at me in surprise. I dreamed of our young son, he said, on a beach with a massive wave coming and I warned him to run and there he was trying to run up a rocky slope when the wave came and caught him and receded with him in its fold. I said to H that it was more than likely a way of showing a case of Post Traumatic Stress that the past event with our son has demonstrated. He agreed. We drank our coffee and ate toast with the gooseberry jam I made last week, that H is convinced gives him a reason to get up out of bed in the morning.

My middle son just finished reading The Sportswriter by Richard Ford. He often asks me to recommend a book and so I comb the bookshelves without any formula. He loved my choice. I flicked through it later in the day as I gathered it up from being discarded on the lounge chair on the patio. I noticed he had underlined certain sentences towards the latter part of the novel; 

''Can affections be frail as that? Mine are heartier.'' and ''this is the last chance to love her'' and ''explaining is where we all get into trouble'' and ''friendship is a lie of life''. I admire his humanity.

My favourite passage is from a book titled, I could reach the sky by O'Grady/Pyke

That Sunday evening as I walk out with the dog to meet Maggie the sun drops below the clouds and fills the street with light. The newspaper was on the table and a teacup beside it where she'd left them to go to Mass. When I get to the street with the high plane trees very thick that year with leaves I see from the people walking towards me that the Mass is over. People walk slowly after Mass. I hear from the park the sound of a tennis ball being struck. It is a beautiful evening in early August with the evening light a very rich gold shining on the white shirts and dresses and in among them I can see Maggiee in her hat walking towards me and the dog. There was always something in how she held her head or lifted her head to arrange the trail of hair across her face, the bones in her hands, the sound she would make before laughing, the lines breaking around her mouth, her foot tapping lightly to a rhythm she was making in her mind, the graceful way she she could bend or turn, the way she could listen like the words or the music were water falling over her, the way she could see into the root of what people did, how amazed she chould be.......

and it goes on and it is pure magic and so not much of a blog, just a sharing of words and sentences this time after a perfectly sunny day in the bog where the beagle lay on the patio somnolent and content and growing old with what appears to be a little more sense. And I did make the Hawaiian burgers for dinner and they were good and H tells me his dream fades now although it does give me the shivers and my son came home on his bicycle from the beach all in one piece and not a day passes that I do not bless the gods who gave us our good fortune. I have a blonde son, (three actually) all tall and strong and all the sentences in the world could never change that. Beauty in life is there, I must remember for I unknowingly touch it with everyday I chance to meet. Maybe not physically but in my mind. I caress my young son like he was just born. In my mind he is only beginning his journey, vital, loved and  lucky to avoid the waves that can come crashing in without any warn, suddenly and dramatic. And all I do is watch. Trust the hands of time.

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The Hawaiian hamburgers sound

The Hawaiian hamburgers sound tasty, Mary. I enjoyed the intimate details of this piece, your son’s underlined passages, the dreams, your favorite passage, and how you start out on a frenzied note and close is such a calming, soothing conclusion—like a smooth, loving wave.   

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Oh Rebb you read my piece so

Oh Rebb you read my piece so intently and I thank you for that alone. Such musings and random thoughts surely don't deserve your comment but it falls softly on my pen-like a gentle mist on the morning bog knowing the sun will shine by noon. Thank you always. m