Poetry on Walls
We started to write poetry on all the walls last night. She brought home a pack of 96 crayons and I went through my old poetry books and as she read on the bed and we listened to the entire Exile on Main Street album I scribbled my "little kid" hand writing all over the walls. I picked out Frost, Thomas, Pope, Walt, T.S., and even a Cummings interpretation on the skinny wall next to the dresser.
"The Office comes on in a few minutes or now even... do you want me to turn off the music?"
She said it because it was the right thing to say. As we try to maintain a diet by going to the supermarket and playing kiwi tag through the aisles. We somehow put down the beef and pick up turkey or chicken. It all makes sense. I love Erin. I love her more when she makes dinner plans with friends that I alienated along time ago and convinces me that they don't hate me. I always think everyone hates me for some reason. Tim seems to think it's because I like it... but that's another conversation.
We laugh like children on a playground and the people everywhere look at us like we're insane. But we just look back, stick out our tongues and know that they are actually the one's that are insane.
As I ran out of the house last night with the trash I noticed her standing in the doorway. She watched as I chased down the passing trash truck and ran passed the the back riders coming to grab my trash and screamed "I want to earn my check brother." and tossed my trash in the back. I turned and saw her smile at me like she always does. She smiles at me like I'm a little kid that she baby sits and that she loves.
We must ask ourselves 10 times a day "Why do people not enjoy life at all?". "What really makes people want to fight?"
And as she says "no" to every bad thing I pick up off the shelves, I somehow find it in me to say "yes" to Rasberry Crystal Lite. Where as before in my life I would have said "no", the fact that she makes life easier than anything I had ever known, and that she makes my day the easiest thing in the world to come home to makes "yes" seem ok...even if I have to watch whatever Jennifer Gardner movie is on On Demand.
As I look for the perfect Dylan Thomas line and roll my eyes at her reading "Vogue" or "Red" or whatever it is... it all seems so very easy. I write the lines from poems that I think will help her go to sleep on her side and the heavy crazy one's on my side. She has to put her glasses on and squint her eyes and she doesn't "really" read them but she still finds it cool that I'm dashing around the room like a nut writing poetry on the white walls. I find it cool that I live with someone that makes my life the best it's ever been.