"And possibly I like the thrill of….quite so new"

by melissakiefer



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“i like my body when it is with your body,” wrote e.e cummings. My rebel-poet refused to capitalize letters and broke rules of grammar and syntax and unconventionally used or did not use punctuation.  He went with whatever he felt like. So did I on this Valentine’s Day.  I immediately thought of the e.e cummings poem when my husband reminded me that I once said I wanted to make love in every room of the new house. “it is so quite a new thing,” anywhere, everywhere, every room.   And my eyes, big love-crumbs, said yes as we tumbled from the kitchen through the dining room to the living room couch and then toppled to the living room floor.     

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                e.e cummings created. He created new. He created beautiful. I love creating anything. I love creating layers of lasagna, grating real mozzarella; I love the the art of tossing in a thousand spices and swirling them into the deep red sauce. I love creating the nostalgic mood of candlelight that frames a halo around the roses, our wedding photographs, the white antique windowsill I turned into a treasure. Even the pina colada scented candle in my kitchen creates in me the balminess of summer, heat on my skin, naps on the dock, everything golden, Okeechobee Florida and the midnights walks lit by stars and lampposts.

                   His prayer before dinner said thank you for a wife who sacrificed for him, who came on this journey with him. My prayer of gratitude was one I whispered all day. Thank you for the gift of time with him on Valentine’s Day when the norm was not even seeing him on Christmas. Thank you for day shift when the norm was sleeping alone. He’s off most weekends? What is this absurdity? A real life? A time for marriage? A time for dancing?  Quite so new. Thank you for the fact that he wakes up and feels excitement for his day. And that’s living—even though there is danger in it.
                I buy groceries and find joy in it. I write letters. I plan, I wonder, I wander. And that’s living too. Peace is just here—it comes in the snowflakes, I guess. But I am warm enough. And I am calm. And I am hopeful. And I am well.
                I get a phone call from a publisher and my heart sings a new song from a very old dream.  So this is my becoming. I am asked how far I am on a book. I am asked what I write about. I say that maybe my work is not focused or where it should be—yet. But I will create. Maybe I don’t like categories or conventional punctuation. But I will create. Maybe my writing is a patchwork quilt of scraps that make up my soul—beautiful scraps about God, teaching, marriage, illness, pain, whatever I feel like, creating, living, becoming. 
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