COOKIES AND MILK
I’ve been kneeling at the wrong altar. Kissing the wrong ring. I’ve been getting a jump on these holidays, in other words. The floorboards betwixt couch and fridge are wearing thin. With all this walking and kneeling I’ve been doing, my legs ache, my patellae ache. And my bones hurt. It’s part of it; it’s just part of being at the party. Because these are the holidays.
I mean, last week it was Thanksgiving and I was at table giving thanks for things like loved-ones and good health (!) And now, apparently, it is Christmas. There are a few ways to tell it is: Target has wrapped its concrete crash barriers in red and green johnnies, the Chipmunks are on the radio again, and at work, I’ve been wondering —quite seriously — if I should be triple-bagging the nebuchadnezzars.
This is because I know how precious those bottles can be; I grew up with one. There was a jeroboam in my family, in my cupboard. It/she/he lived in the low-down, black-beyond of the larder. Mostly, she gathered dust; she didn’t come out much. But, make no mistake, the dust was part of it. You wanted the dust, you wanted that fairy film of provenance, of preciousness.
So, natch, I wanted to wipe it off. My thumb itched to swiff her shoulders clean, or at least write my name in her “dirt.” But I knew better. The dust was a bit like time: you gathered it up, wanted more of it. Dust to dust to dust.
But the sad thing was, like I say, she rarely came out of her box. That little coffin, scorched with French bla-bla-bla was almost never opened. ‘Though it was good to know she was there, down in the dark, safe in her bier, a few feet from the back door. Because that bottle we had was worth protecting. She was as precious as gold, and I was safe in the knowledge that — come hell or high water — she would always be the first one out.
Less interesting tho still somewhat bewitching was the chilly glass of vermouth which sat dead-center and cold-sweating on the refrigerator shelf waiting for my mother’s return from work each day. If you really listened, you could hear that drink – the tiny squeak of ice as it melted, the little clink of cubes as they reorganized themselves around their own demise.
It/she was as pretty as a picture – greeny-gold, winked-through by the sunlight of a refrigerator bulb. I know; I put it there. I made it for my mother. It was an unequivocal act of love.
AB - 2.12.23