Visit
At the supermarket I bought chipotle pepperssalsa verde and jalapeno peppers,
Mexican chocolate rich with cinnamon,
more things to take home in my suitcase
so I would taste Texas long after
the Epsom salts I also bought to soak in
after my long days fitting the visit in
ran out, and I was home where I belonged,
wits straddled between Texas and Virginia,
those hills and mesquite, these hills and crows.
Outside, now, the deer that hide in our woods
remind me of the deer in the road near Llano.
The open fields and mountain air I want to live in
and reminders of how much I need as well
a scorching sun and concrete and sidewalks
that take me everywhere I want to go.
Even being with a family that loves me,
I still feel that being with you for those few days
was like coming home to stewed chicken and green beans
after a long time waiting for someone to feed me.
I want it all, Huff, like the groceries I ferreted away,
a cupboard full of baby food, Mexican food, your coffee,
clean air and your apartment full of cigarette smoke.
I want to be the woman who was homesick for Virginia,
my only son saying "mama, Mama" on the phone.
I want to be the woman who slept on your couch
and drank coffee with you and drove to San Angelo and back,
happy and feeling whole in Austin and anxious to get back home.
"Mi casa es su casa," you said when I left, and I knew.
I'll be back, too, bringing another shopping list with me,
and this time a small child who needs to sit on your lap and
watch the smoke I know is bad for him disappear into thin air.
| -- | Felicia Mitchell for Albert Huffstickler |
For Huff
He walks back and forth to the mailbox
to the grocery store to the post office
to the coffee shop
and he gets coffee
and he smokes
and he writes and he draws
and he doesn't really know it
(or if he does, he doesn't let on),
but he is a sort of a saint,
or as much of a saint as I am likely to meet
because he has no pretensions
and has compassion for everyone,
no smarmy syrupy stupid compassion,
he's not afraid to mention it if someone is
acting like an idiot, but he doesn't blame them,
he just sort of laughs and
he writes and he draws
and people love him in a million ways
like he has become everyone's grandfather
like he is an artistic santa claus
and he walks and he walks
on legs that look, at times,
not so sturdy,
like he is maybe being helped
by the angels.
| -- | David Jewell 2001 |
