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"no matter where i am and every tear i've cried You hold in your hand You never left my side and though my heart is torn i will praise You in this storm" The weather in Houston has been wonderful. It is cool in the morning and persists through the day. Tingly feelings of anticipation abound as I know even cooler weather is just ahead. So exciting! On the way in to work this morning, I was listening to NPR like I do most days. Garrison Keillor recited Sonia Gernes's poem entitled "Little Sisters" during The Writer's Almanac. It was one of the most powerful pieces I've heard in some time. I'll try to direct link his reading here, but if that doesn't work, I'll ninja-post the text in the extended section of this entry. Strong work. Henry gets little beef tendons instead of processed rawhide because of his size and the danger of unsoftened (via saliva) swallowed pieces causing intestinal blockage during post consumption expansion. He uses his little paws like hands to hold and position the direction of the treat using opposing pressure... like a small child holding a sippy cup. Last night, during House, he got tired of squeezing the chewy, so he stuck one end between two couch cushions to use the pressure as a tool for accessing the end of the chewy while giving his paws and forearms a rest. Problem solving is what makes him so mischievous. I think the descriptor used on the phone with Beth last night was "cute little smarty-pants". Regardless of who said it, that he is. Speaking of Beth, which I don't think I have much here, she is someone I've known most of my life... probably somewhere between 25 and 30 years in some capacity. We have always been friends and kept in touch intermittently while RealLife™ happened. Since EL's death, I've been spending more time with family and friends. As time passes and I deal with the gambit of emotions that come with becoming a widower in the blink of an eye, I have found comfort in those relationships with those around me. There was a time in my life where most of my friends were women. These days, mostly due to professional affiliation and coincidence, most of my friends are men. Beth is my longest standing female friend and companion that is not related to me. She and I have history that spans all my relationships, schools, job selections to career paths, etc. In some times we were disconnected due to geographic distance or current personal status, but she's always been and will be someone special in my life. I've been spending more time with her recently and in those moments I see some sunshine through my cloudy sky. I know she's not there to save me from my pain, but she does do well in reminding me of the man I was before Erin died and perhaps she'll be there someday when I am that man again. Someday. Shifting gears... I just found out that my progressive thinking corporation that is currently running most of our goodies on Linux systems is being baby-seal beaten into using Micro$oft Exchange for our email delivery in the coming weeks. I am filled with disgust. Further, I'll need to replace my phone in order to receive any efficient email while on the road since my current PPTP VPN for POP3 delivery will no longer be supported. Grrrr! The man is rubbing me the wrong way. It looks like it will have to be the 8125. Not happy. I am off to lunch. "Little Sisters" - Sonia Gernes This birthday I have reached the age where my mother bore the last of her dead daughters— one that was whisked away before its first clean cry could scour the naked room, the later two a blue that refused to brighten. "Baby Girl, Infant Daughter of ..." the little markers said and I listened from behind the stove in her last pregnancy, watched her body swell and sag, knew from the shape of those whispered words that something was amiss— she was weighted already with two small stones. Summer mornings I called them forth— the little sisters I had never seen— made them faces from the old ache in the air above the garden, hair like mine from the grassy space where root crops should have been. I learned of blood tests, transfusions, the factor called Rh, my little sisters dreaming their aquatic days on lethal ropes, my mother almost dead. Now at the kitchen table lighting candles on a cake, I am empty-handed, empty-wombed, no daughters to give her as she counts again my miraculous birth, fourth and forceps-born, her last survivor in that war of blood with family blood. I reach for her hand and hold it, but there are spaces here, tender lacunae we cannot fold away. Still somewhere the hand-stitched garments, the gingham quilts, the counting game. Still the soot-smudged corner where I crouched beneath the stovepipe and fingered like a rosary the small pebbles of their names.