Only a handful. Which are now a mouthful. They are difficult to chew, much less swallow, much less taste, much less fathom, much less savor, much less why can’t I ever get more than just peanuts?
The good thing is that they do last awhile. For about twenty minutes before the taste, and memory are gone.

The kids, for fun, soaked little wads of toilet paper and threw them up on the sheet rock ceiling, creating little clouds up there. Eventually drying, the clouds fell and what was left in their absence were these silhouettes which are often seen in the minds of children–spaces to be filled with their imagination. As a father, I enjoyed getting a glimpse into their imagination. As an Uncle I wanted them to refill the ceiling with more clouds. As a brother I knew my sister would be pissed at what her kids were up to and why the hell had I not stopped them from ruining her bathroom ceiling?
As a boy, I balled up my own wet toilet paper and flung it up.

Kitty, kitty, kit-teeee
Kitty, kitty, kiiiiitt,
Kitty, kitty, kitty, kit
Kittyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Kittttttttteeeeeeeeeeee
Kitty, kitty, kitty, kittttttt

She found herself surrounded by a Mexican family, in their living room. She was introduced to them by her fiance, also a Mexican.
They were polite to her but they had preferred she was Catholic. How this became a point of contention was rather interesting. She did believe in God, but somehow bypassed the religion during her stints as a Christian. She’d been born and raised Baptist, then became a Jehovah’s Witness, then Pentecostal, then Non-Denominational, then just plain old Evangelical. Then, briefly, a Buddhist.
Now she was just Susan Hawkins, feeling naked without some religion to buttress the looks of disapproval from Jose’s family.

I found the exact spot I needed for taking my nap. “Taking my nap”–as though someone else had it–as if I needed to yank it from someone. Or worse, steal it back.
And when I took my nap, which is and always be rightfully mine, I ended up dreaming that I stole kisses. The kisses are rightfully mine too. After all, it’s only a dream. Which even if they weren’t, are worth stealing. I went to jail for my doings–in my dream that is. But I gladly accepted my sentence: death by lethal injection. As the plunger of the syringe moved toward the needle, before I could feel anything go into my arms, I woke up. My heart was beating in my chest like a wild animal. I was delirious with relief. Hush up, you old rodent, I scolded my heart before getting up and putting all my naps and kisses back where I’d last found them.

The time came when it was time to begin things. And by begin I mean to start saying “I love you.” I have to start things in advance.
“I” starts with flowers and hand holding.
“You” starts with seeing you, wanting you, thinking of you.
“Love” takes a bit longer to get to. Love takes forever to get to.

Photos of illumined relatives dance across the sky. They are meant to enhance the living room, legitimize it. But all I can think of is: Is that her sister? Is this the son? Or the brother? I’ll also catch black and white photos meant to stylize the family, give it not just legitimacy but a political importance.
The portraits of the the family sitting in wicker chairs is more than enough to get me to go into the next room. Which is the kitchen. The only photos there are of food. In black and white.

They just walked in.. Two women who were plainly dressed. I asked them to leave because I had work to do. This was a lie. I only had my lap top in front of me watching clips of The Breakfast Club.

The two women could clearly see my screen. And they just continued on, into my house.

I was furious. I grabbed them both their hands and rather expertly, I must say, swung them back through the front door.

But there were others. Several men. More women. I was worried.

I thought they were protesters, since I’d seen many throughout the last year, in the town square. But these were on my front lawn. On my porch.

I was so pissed. I told them to leave or I would call 911. Then I thought: was it okay to call 911? Was this an actual emergency?

I went back to my lap and they continued. What I mean by continued, I don’t know. Which is another reason I didn’t want to call 911. I was no longer angry. I was confused.

Sometimes–well all of the time–and I do mean all the time–my angora sweater will tread through the closet on its way to Winter. Fine. That’s a given. But here’s the part that is the Sometimes: sometimes my angora sweater doesn’t arrive at winter, but stops a bit too early, and arrives in late Fall. Or never stops at Winter at all, and lands in early Spring. I’m worried. I’ve asked my angora about it. The answers are never consistent (I get different answers each time I ask the same questions.) Is my angora suffering from dementia? Sweaters have been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, though admittedly more of those cases involved the cotton-blends sweaters. My next line of question will depend on where the angora lands next. If it arrives at early summer, I will have to come up with entirely new questions. Maybe the answers will have to change too.

Before I’d cleaved into two, I was a part of everything. But this division has focused me.

If there is such a thing as a concise, pithy desire then for me it is this: I want to be here. With every fiber of what few cells I have. I want to be here.Focused.