Today is my mother's seventieth birthday. I stayed the night in Lexington to get up at six in the morning and sing to her before she left the house to collect her grandchild for the afternoon (after which I went back to bed and woke to the sounds of my niece running around what we still call the music room, even though there hasn't been a piano in there for a decade-plus). We gave her presents with cat motifs, books and a vermilion silk scarf. Tonight my father is taking her to Café St. Petersburg so that she can have a little caviar, to be fancy. Her sister sent flowers in a red glass vase. I have seen more movies from the year in which she was born than I have from my own.
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- 1: Is this your name or a doctor's eye chart?
- 2: And they won't thank you, they don't make awards for that
- 3: No one who can stand staying landlocked for longer than a month at most
- 4: But the soft and lovely silvers are now falling on my shoulder
- 5: What does it do when we're asleep?
- 6: Now where did you get that from, John le Carré?
- 7: Put your circuits in the sea
- 8: Sure as the morning light when frigid love and fallen doves take flight
- 9: And in the end they might even thank me with a garden in my name
- 10: I'd marry her this minute if she only would agree
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