I finished reading “The Golden Compass” last night, finally. It was really good, so I think I am going to get the second one from the library soon. It’s a little sad that the time it took me to read that book outlasted the time of the relationship with the guy who bought me the book as a gift, but… there you go. Here’s to faster reading in the future.
And now, a poem I wrote while sitting in the only creative writing class I ever took, one year ago today. (A little melodramatic, but it suited the circumstances.)
“Who Knows What is Wrong With my Mother”
Who knows what is wrong with my mother.
It’s been hours since her appointment time,
And I knew she wouldn’t call me
an hour before my one class of the day,
Knowing I won’t go if it’s bad news.
It must be bad news.
They woke her up this morning,
Urging her to come in.
The results of yesterday’s unplanned MRI
Must be back.
“We are worried at this point,”
said her brief e-mail to me
first thing this morning.
If my mother is worried,
Then I am frantic.
Today, like yesterday, is so cold.
At least the school has shuttles
running us to class
But the cold makes it hurt even more to wait.
Today is the coldest day of my life.
Feb. 5, 2007