Dangerous Compassions

I’ll tell you how the sun rose

We’re at a special place.  Yesterday the owner told us that the night before, the cows came up to the house.  They hadn’t done that in a while.  He said if we heard something in the night, it wasn’t robbers or anything–just cows.  He said not to go among them because one has horns.  I found that secretly hilarious.

“Yeah, these city slickers came to my cabin, and they wanted to be among the cows!  They got gored!  It was a scene of carnage!”  I said that to Ming this morning in a funny voice.

I said I wanted to turn all the lights off and open the shade so we could watch the sun rise.  Honestly, we often see the sun rise because we serve at 6:30am, at the soup line.  But it sounded cool to watch the sun rise from bed.

Ming turned off the lights and opened the shade.  Then he came into bed and fell asleep.

“Do you think it’ll come up?” I asked.  “It always has, every other day…”

We cuddled.  Ming slept.  I pulled up his shirt to put my hand on his back.

“I think the sun is sleeping in today,” I said.  “Do you know how to say sleeping in, in French?”

“No,” he mumbled.

“Make the fat morning,” I said.  “You know, like mardi gras.  Fat Tuesday.”

I heard coyotes in the night, distant.  I was like, what’s that sound.  There were long, weird sounds, then the “yip yip yip!” so I realized it was coyotes.  They sounded so distant, I don’t think they woke me up.  I just woke up at the right moment.

This cabin has art on the walls–children’s wooden puzzles from the 1950s, maybe earlier, that have a piece missing.  I think I photographed that one in May also. 

I was imagining someone saying, “No, don’t throw those away!  I’ll make art out of them and put it up in a cabin!”

Ming asked, “Where’s the box that has the missing pieces?”

“I think they’re lost,” I said.  “Some kid lost them 70 years ago.  I’ve been fantasizing about making new pieces to fit in the holes.  Have you been thinking about that?”

“No,” Ming said.

“That’s where my mind goes,” I said.

He decided he wants pasta for breakfast.  He’s washing the pot.  There are some slices of American cheese I found in the fridge behind the butter door, individually wrapped in plastic.  So American!  I asked Ming if it would gross him out if I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich with them.

“No,” he said.

“If they’re not moldy, I think they’re ok, right?” I asked.  “What are the rules of fake cheese?”

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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