a living secret squeezed out through here

Hey Jay,

This afternoon as I was leaving work a coworker stopped me and told me that she is pregnant, pregnant in the way that is all trepidation and flutter.  (Not that flutters cannot be pleasant, they certainly can, but they differ markedly from assured joy.)  She started to talk to me about how a stagnant timetable would prevent her from having to spend as many hours at school but somehow dissolved rapidly without my saying anything into confession, concession, profession.  And pregnancy.  I think I thought of you because of the word stagnant.

Your toolbox is still in my basement.  I have taken it with me through three moves now and I finally decided to open it to see what was inside.  In addition to your tools, I found a Darwin fish and a small plastic lizard.  I actually imagine you make a good father, I imagine you more active now if only because you wouldn't let a toddler tumble down the stairs (would you?).  I remember your trenchant voice (I do not eat babies) but now instead it says, Do not run in the house, Tiny-Jay.  (And then it says I do not eat babies, and I smother a laugh because I cannot stop you from saying that.)

I saw that picture of me you drew, you know, the one where I'm lying on my back on the grass with my eyes half-closed looking sort of like a girl who isn't afraid of falling asleep outside in a public place. I think you didn't finish that picture because there were details missing, but you must have had a big idea and then grew bored of looking at me before you could finish it.  I remember the day you took the photograph this was drawn from; we'd watched the dragonboat races and had beer at the market, and played a game of Galaga at the arcade.  Later that afternoon a piece of underwire in my bra snapped in half and slid down my arm and out my sleeve while I was shaking hands with your new girlfriend.  She did not think it was funny.

Anyway, that's a lot of years ago.  But I thought of you and thought maybe I could tell you so.  You could even write back to me if you wanted, except that I know you hate writing.  You like pictures, not words.  But I'd listen if you sent me a picture too.

Lisa




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