This morning, 10am. I'm in a Barnes and Noble headed to the subway, headed to the Path, headed to New Jersey, headed to a bridal shower in Philly. I've already bought a recipe holder stand off the registry, and have decided to compliment it with a cookbook. That's how I find myself in the cookbook aisle, poking ambivalently through the vegetarian section.
A sweet friend of mine is getting married. I haven't seen her in several years and even back when we did see each other regularly, I don't think I ever knew what she liked to eat.
The cookbook suddenly seems a poor idea.
I'm in a foul mood. Lack of sleep because the cats were on a rampage, lack of excitement for the bridal shower because I'm mourning the dying marriages of other friends. This week we had a cancer diagnosis in the family, I missed all but one workout and shit, isn't it Mother's Day soon?
The cookbook certainly seems like a poor idea.
What is certain in our lives? If vows aren't certain and health isn't certain and even the weather can't seem to warm up in time for late spring, I feel very untethered to the map.
I decide the only thing that's certain is poetry and I leave the vegan soup books for the sleek paperbacks filled with rhythmed words. I buy her a book of poetry.
Because even if this bridal shower gives way to a rough road ahead, she can always order takeout. Nourishment from poems, from wading through the complexities of life revealed through words, is maybe the only thing that will comfort her.
It is, indeed, the only thing that comforted me this morning.