6:50

sunday dusk

the sky lets light go

from its shoulders

Tea and Ophthalmology (Some Notes)

Across from me at Panera Bread, a table of four women contentedly knits, occasionally chatting, occasionally clicking needles in contemplative silence. I think that—all of that—is what I need more of in my life. Not knitting specifically, the craft of my mother, grandmother, and sisters (but hey, maybe knitting specifically!). I mean the shared interest, the community, the understanding. The conversation, the regularity (I just heard one of the women tell a stranger that they, or other slightly different groupings, meet three days a week), the crafting of objects with care and support. Friendship? I have friends, but I don’t have this right now.

A few months ago, I signed up for an introductory silversmithing class, but I was sick when the day came around and had to cancel (and eat the tuition). I had no idea what I was going to make. I have no particular vision of a design, but I do like—and wear—rings and bracelets and earrings and tie bars. Ornamentation. I admire it on other men. I always notice the glint. I had to trust that I’d be guided, if not inspired, toward the shape of something.

I always treat myself to Panera after seeing my ophthalmologist, out in the far suburbs. I have a big cup of tea and one of my bad-vegan snacks, meaning I go to great lengths to see if they have peanut butter for the bagels rather than cream cheese (they do), add fruit salad—and then order a very non-vegan scone, which I excuse because I have serious eye issues, poor me, and anyway the scone reminds me of D. and the time we spend together, often eating non-vegan scones at this or that tearoom (though I make pretty good vegan ones). I feel both comforted and guilty.

Once or twice a year, I get together with my friend C., as I did last weekend, to talk about books and exchange recommendations, among other things, including just catching up  (we were in a gay writing group years ago). The funny thing is we don’t usually agree on, or even haven’t read, the same things. He reads a lot of what I’d call semi-cheesy gay fiction. In my own reading, I almost always have to have at least the acknowledgment that gay people exist, but I tend toward the more literary, I suppose. Even so, lately I’ve been reading more historical nonfiction. Not even personal essays or memoirs, which is what I supposedly write and definitely teach. But C. respects my opinion and enjoys my company, as I do his. We laugh. We don’t see each other enough. (My eye doctor helps me with seeing but not with that.)

In another universe, we might knit.