guests kerry the houseguest left, took her dogs and blankets and powdered coffee creamer, and i don’t mind at all. i know i’ll see her again. i put the house back the way i like it, said no more being so accommodating, ate and loafed and read and painted my nails, blissfully unwatched. the walls are walls again, solid and opaque, the corners hold only dust, the street sounds and house sounds fade so i don’t even hear them, like how i never noticed the grandfather clock in our house when i was growing up. it still chimes every quarter hour, all day and all night, and has to be wound by a brittle brass chain. it gets dark earlier now so it felt late when we changed the sheets on the futon and cleaned up and nick was calling, we fuckin made it, 16th and something-- we ran down the street to meet him and his tall beared friend, who later told me all about his many foot surgeries and his dog and what it’s like to find a black bear in your front yard. It was warm, loud, a holiday. the fridge was suddenly full of beer and a record was on and nick came over to me and said in his drawl, i’m so happy, it’s been so long since i’ve seen y’all but it’s always like no time’s passed. he gave me another hug. he was a little sweaty. they’d spent about nine hours in the car--just two dudes with long hair driving up from the mountains to go to a metal festival. he smiled and looked a little elfish and leaned on me, sayin, it’s so great to be here getting hammered with you, and he was laughing. it reminded me of after the wedding, when came home, wrapped himself up in a blanket like a burrito, and passed out on the floor. i didn’t get hammered but it is great having them here getting hammered or not. it was, is, a nice mellow warmth in the house. people playing guitar, eating bagels, drinking beer, telling old stories. everyone is happy to be in the same space together. i sleep soundly. 210926 ... kerry tall bearded. not tall beared. damn. 210926 ... kerry corwin and nick had gone to see some metal band. when we went to pick them up they tumbled into the backseat exhausted and satiated, and we compared our evenings, all of us realizing how we’ve aged. it’s hard to stand for so long, corwin said, rubbing his knees. those damn city blocks, he and nick said, and all of us laughed tired laughs. it’s the concrete, i said. i’m a mountain man, said nick. i ain’t used to this shit. everyone was hungry. the diners were all closed but alex realized lorenzos is still open, has $5 slices and they’re huge, no topping options just cheese, simple. we trudged down several blocks alternating between groaning and chuckling, cracking our joints, yawning. inside lorenzo’s there were no chairs, just a register and an oven and some jars of red pepper flakes. the light was old-feeling, faded, like standing in an old snapshot. the tiny woman yelled at a drunk guy to go eat outside and turned to us. what can i get youse guys? alex asked how’s it’s been tonight. she rolled her eyes. it’s been hoppin. 4 slices, ok. we’re blocking the sidewalk, the slices are too long to fold and we have to lift them up and dangle them, dripping cheese and oil. they were out of napkins so we used our forearms. all three of them had flecks of marinara and threads of cheese in their beards. i handed off the rest of my slice to whoever. that night was more storytelling and i went to bed first, and in the morning the dingy kitchen with its warped linoleum floor looked bright and cheery, and there’s plenty more bagels, but the cream cheese is toast. huh? nick and i drank coffee on the stoop. he’d been wearing the same shirt for two days and his orange hair was frizzy. i said if you get tired of that clean mountain air just come on up here, and he hugged me twice. 210927 ... tender square i feel like i'm living in these scenes, they are so vivid, kerry. if you still have these guests staying with you i want MORE! concert-going when you're old does suck! why do the bands always start so late? why doesn't red bull keep me awake enough to make it through their set? and yes, the knee pain, the back pain. at least i'm wise enough to wear earplugs and flats now. 210927 ... kerry aw shucks, thanks tender square! and i wish those guests were still around but they left this morning… felt too soon! i’ll dredge (that’s the right word?) up some old guest-stories. they’re fun to write about! oh yeah earplugs are essential. and comfy shoes. and not having anything to do the next morning. 210927 ... kerry we all sleep like the dead, corwin and nick in the basement with the window open, alex and i upstairs in pitch black. it takes us three pots of coffee to get going. eventually we’ve put ourselves together and we are trotting along toward snyder, talking food. corwin asks about the difference between a hoagie and a sub sandwich. well for one the hoagie is far superior, i say, and alex explains the difference and how italians claim they “invented” the hoagie and we all start talking about how absurd it is to think you’ve invented the concept of meat and cheese on bread, which begs the question, is a hamburger a sandwich? a unanimous yes. nick is skipping along in front. i’ve never seen him skip; he’s not dainty or nimble-seeming. looking back over his shoulder he sings the lunchlady song in a falsetto: hoagies and grinders hoagies and grinders and i chime in, navy beans! navy beans! it’s hot in the sun and the walk is too long. we switch sides of the street to stay in the shade. corwin is wearing a hat and alex is dark and never burns but nick and i are pale and we each sigh every time we reach the shade. he says it’s hard being a ginger in this blasted heat. i say it’s always hard being a ghost. he snickers. alex doesn’t have his vax card so we end up at a tavern with big umbrellas on the patio, which is right at a busy intersection, so loud, too sunny. all the umbrellas are broken and the wind keeps blowing ours over so we take turns holding it in place. nick and corwin both order the happy hour special and giggle when the drinks arrive, pink and frosty in little rounded goblets. hey sweetheart, corwin says, wanna share a caesar salad? and nick bats his eyelashes. well hell, he says, aren’t we a cute little couple. let’s split this roast beef au jus too. save room for cheesesteaks. i want an IPA but i order fries and a yuengling because i’m cheap and rarely drink. alex has to talk to his boss later so he has water. the salad and fries never arrive, and there’s a wavering tension at the table, a mix of sympathy and irritation. no one wants to complain. the four of us combined have spent decades carrying trays and slinging drinks and we know how it is. the server comps the food and we continue on our merry way. hoagies and grinders hoagies and grinders navy beans! navy beans! later, back at the house, i leash up the pup and put on a flannel. i’m taking lou for a stroll, i call out to no one in particular. nick asks if he can come along and i say of course, as long as you scoop the poop. kidding, kidding. lou leads the way. nick misses Sug, his darlin. my mother used to call me that, i tell him, and he says his did too. he misses sarah. it’s been nearly two years. and he misses hank, with his big pit bull head and floppy tongue and white paws. i say i know he’s probably tried everything, but what if they drove, what if they met in the middle-- but he shakes his head. of course they’ve tried. but she’s out in california, deep in the emerald triangle. i still love her, he says, still love her so much. but at least i’ve got sug. sugar booger. at least we all have each other. 210928 ... kerry the former houseguest and her daughter came over for an evening visit. when the houseguest came in the door her face was flushed from the cold and she was wearing a puffer jacket, a new one with fur around the hood, and she had a bag with two bottles of wine. her eyelids were painted copper and we sat beside each other on the couch, sinking into it, murmuring. there is a pleasant quiet with her. i remember when i met her, and she was cold to me and i was afraid of her because she was so beautiful and strong. she had a harsh look to her, dark suspicious eyes and a regal nose and a quietness then, but the quiet is different now. her voice is different now. her eyes are softer. her daughter drove all the way from indiana with her two dogs and shimmering youthfulness. i met her when she was only fifteen and we were eating lobster tails cooked by the houseguest, the first time i’d tried lobster. she still looks like a doll–blonde hair and eyes that are sometimes blue, sometimes turquoise, impossibly long lashes, melodic voice. i can picture her at both 15 and 25. i found myself studying her face, thinking, "is she real? no one actually looks like that." she's studying to be a nurse and works in a pediatric oncology unit. we all said at the same time, “but how? how can you stand it?” and she told us about seeing a dead body for the first time, a man who’d shot himself in the head. it didn’t bother her, she didn’t know why. “homeless outreach is different than nursing of course,” i told her, “but caring for someone so vulnerable–it’s a high at first. it’s energizing because you’re doing something, you’re making a difference that you can witness.” after a few months at the shelter i’d come home at 8am after a ten-hour shift, shattered. i’d stand in the laundry room, the most alone place, and cry. i said, “you’re a badass, but be careful.” it doesn’t happen all that often anymore but when i meet someone who’s 25, i always have the same thought–i want to say, “enjoy being 25, live it up, keep your eyes wide open because you are becoming an adult in a different way than you already have. i want to say, “25 was the worst year of my life so far. don’t waste it.” 211219 what's it to you? who go blather from