a party. Everybody at home getting ready. Pulling on boots, fixing their hair, planning what to say if she's there, picking a pluckier lipstick, rehearsing a joke with a stickpin in it, doing the last minute fumbling one does before leaving for the night like tying up the dog or turning on the yard light. I like to think of them driving, finding their way in the dark, taking this left, that right, while I light candles, start the music softly seething. Everything waiting. Even the wine barely breathing.
"I've been reading The Field by Lynne McTaggart, about quantum physics, how we're all connected by the energy between us. I wrote this poem a year ago, but it's been five years since I hosted my last annual October party, a ritual I've neglected. Shame. I miss it. The poem's appearance in October I take as a prompt from the universe: to host again, and more often."