Pablo has been coming over for dinner several nights a week since forever, it seems. Sometimes he brings a bottle of wine. Other times, maybe some fruit or cheese and crackers. A few times, when I was dead broke (happens more times than I'm comfortable with - it's expensive to live here and no one gets into my line of work to become rich), he shopped for groceries. While I cook, he reads. While I do dishes afterwards, he reads. If it's not too late, we'll move from the kitchen to the living room, I'll take up my knitting, and he'll continue to read.
In this manner, we've made our way through quite a pile of books. Currently, we're alternating between excerpts from Twain's Life on the Mississippi and Herodotus's Histories. (This begs the question: was Twain an American Herodotus or was Herodotus a Greek Twain?)
Today is my dinner partner, storyteller and friend's 39th birthday. As always, I wish him much comfort and happiness, and I hope that his day is a pleasant one.
A Happy Birthday
This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.