A record of serious events.

If you had been in the vicinity of my Grandmother's driveway at around nine pm this evening, you would have been witness to a sight of National Geographic style proportions.

A gold Toyota Camry is circled almost entirely by two young women, one directly behind the other. The woman in front waves one arm up and down, and over her head, in a regular pattern, speaking quietly. Her other arm she raised up and down opposite to the first, though not as high, because in it she holds a large opaque bottle. Full of Pat and Oscar's salad dressing. It shakes in her hand at the high point in its arc, a shiver that makes it a weapon and a scepter.

All the way around the car they go, starting at the front of the car and traveling past the passenger side, around the trunk to the driver's door. There, the ritual complete, they stop, hug and the girl with the salad dressing returns to the passenger side of the car, while her companion gets in on the driver's side.

Two or three minutes later the car pulls out of the driveway, turning left at the bottom of hill, and traveling out sight.

They keep the bottle of dressing next a bag of lettuce on the floor of the car.



And this is how we keep cobwebs from getting in Karot's hair at my grandmother's house, 'cause they totally gross her out. I am very tough, though I think this is probably the first time I've ever wielded a lemon-vinegrette to do it.

Poem Spam

San Antonio
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Tonight I lingered over your name,
the delicate assembly of vowels
a voice inside my head.
You were sleeping when I arrived.
I stood by your bed
and watched the sheets rise gently.
I knew what slant of light
would make you turn over.
It was then I felt
the highways slide out of my hands.
I remembered the old men
in the west side café,
dealing dominoes like magical charms.
It was then I knew,
like a woman looking backward,
I could not leave you,
or find anyone I loved more.