Easter, No Matter

No matter what, there were daffodils. No matter four and a half hours: All My Children, General Hospital, Oprah and American Idol.  My dog, socks.  Running like a herding dog, with nothing to lasso but the wind.  His eyes narrow. His socks brown.  White.  No matter eating from 3:00 until crackers and cheese, then chicken, then chicken and soy with bladder-bleeding ketchup. Leftover crème fraiche with granola and almonds. What was I trying to do the with soy sausage with chili-Chinese.  No matter, no matter. Pre-lief and Advil.  No matter what, there was you.  Your voice, a sonata wall-papering the kitchen, yielding and melodious.  Jelly beans in a golden dish. Different flavored eggs. Christ—rising again. For some. Despite ulcered-disillusion.  These days.  Finding the elastic of spittle on my lips.  Like scorched milk-skin on my lips. Memories of grandma, smiling delight over spatula and fried potatoes—her Irish, in the black skillet. Drool spilling a small puddle on the back of her hand. Her black eye darting to mine.  Wiping in the dishtowel. Turning from me. No matter. Her slim form and dimples.  Thirty years ago or a weekend.  Three days.  A resurrection or down strum on a guitar.

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