Day One — Today I’m grateful for my family. I’m grateful for my husband, for our apartment with the views of the river, for my warm safe bed.
Day Two — Today I’m grateful for my work. I get paid to pick colors and move images around on a page. That’s amazing, and I am so grateful for this.
Day Three — I’m grateful that I have good friends. I’m grateful I live in a beautiful city.
Day Four — I’m exhausted. I’m not feeling grateful. I’m feeling spiteful. Should I start a spiteful list?
Day Five — I know I’m supposed to pick something to be grateful for even though I don’t want to. I’m on day FIVE and I’m feeling done with this exercise. I am an ingrate.
Day Six — I’m grateful that I take Lexapro. Clearly, I should be taking more.
Day Seven — I’m grateful for my family. Also, I like chocolate.
Day Eight — Today I yelled at a guy in a parking lot who was sarcastic with me. I should have let it go. It wasn’t important. I’m grateful that I didn’t slap him.
Day Nine — I’m grateful that my kids are really nice people. Most of the time. My kids are teenagers and they do things that teenagers do. I’m grateful that I don’t want to give them up for adoption. Most of the time.
Day Ten — I’m grateful I can say “I’m sorry” when it matters.
Day Eleven — I’m grateful for strong black tea and pumpkin scones.
Day Twelve — I’m grateful for the sparrow that visited the table yesterday while Neve and I ate Brioche at a cafe.
One moment from our very recent trip to California.
This post is inspired by Amanda Blake Soule from Soulemama.com.
We always had to talk in hushed whispers. Occasionally my grandmother would forget, her voice raising, her r’s rolling. We were strange, we were strangers.
Those old farmers, in those old Ohio fields tilled my native state’s soil and yet, I was a foreigner.
To be a first generation American is always an experience in divided loyalties. To be a first generation Latina in the 1970’s in the rural, flat expanses of mid-west corn rows, was a lesson in split personality disorder.
In the summer of 1974 we visited my cousins in Spain. We walked along cobbled-stone, narrow roads while the neighbors shouted, “The Americans are here!” to one another.
Earlier in that very year, I had started school. Dressed in a pristine, pressed dress with patent leather shoes and tightly braided hair, my casual t-shirt and jeans-clad classmates had sarcastically asked me, “What planet are you from?”
These memories float around in my mind 40 years later as I ride along Route 376 in my adopted industrial city of adulthood.
I’m riding behind a shiny red pick-up truck. A bumper sticker reads, “You’re in America now, speak English!”.
I hear my grandmother’s voice, her laugh, her forceful cadence. I see her in my mind’s eye, asking for the heads to be left on the fish at the market. And I recall the horrified looks on the faces of those meat-counter ladies at the downtown Kresge’s.
“You want the head left on the fish?”
“Si, si la cabeza, thank you!”
They would exchange a look of disgust.
But these native Americans were not Native American. Their story wasn’t so different from mine, the main difference is that it had been played out a couple generations before me. They had forgotten their own history, their customs, their language, the stories of
I do speak English, Mr. Pickup.
And I remember, I remember everything.
I see this river every day. Herons fly past our windows and geese call out through the early morning mist. Sometimes I see fish breaking the surface of the water and riding a perfect arc on their splashy return. Barges sail by, heavy and intimidating throughout the night and day. Ducks with iridescent colors swim the quick current downriver towards the city.
I am grateful for this beauty today.
Slicing into an orange, the juice misting
the hairs on my arm, twinkling under
the kitchen light, lighting my senses;
I remember watching my mother
a Zen-like procedure, ripe with anticipation,
with desire, drift like a moist halo
around my head.
In slow motion, my thoughts linger over the image; her hands, the glint on the silver knife, the woodgrain on the handle, the perfect orb bursting with liquid gold, the pungent smell, teasing and tickling my nose.
I am eight again.
“Are you even listening? Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“Yes” I say, “I’m sorry bud.”
I look into the eyes of my son, who is eight.