Sunday, February 25, 2007
When she was walking somewhere, a "kid" came up to her and said he wanted to get together with her.
"So I took off my hood and said, 'Do you still want to date me?' And, he said, 'Yeah.' It don't matter if you got gray hair these days!" We laughed at her exasperation with the youth not leaving a granny with grey dreadlocks alone on the inner sidewalks of our town.
And then, she began talking about her heartbreak with a 42 year old son who has hardened his heart against God. She even wrote him a poem, which she pulled out of her nearby purse. The rhyme scheme was predictably abab, abab, all throughout. The matching words were predictable. Yet it was tight (the old meaning of this word): a powerful invocation for the prodigal son broadcasted through an adept writer mom's heart and fingertips. She's using her creativity to call out. I was quite impressed with the entire poem which is published in a high quality anthology in heaven, I'm sure. This mother is beautiful, beautiful.
I had many bluegrass jammers (or slammers as this is a beginning squawking group) in my living room the other night. My daughter's old boyfriend, the one who caused me high-point grief at times but has proven to be a constant concerned friend to her, sat beside me on my red couch and picked along with us.
"We've got ourselves a rocker here!" I said in introduction to the others there. The two squawkin' fiddle boys looked envious at his genre. The rocker tried to show off to them a couple of times which got him a string-deadening hand from me. He's been yelled at by me before; he obediently grinned and silenced himself. Isn't that where we want all potential in-laws when they approach through our own children? Amen, amen.