Coyuchi

Coyuchi1. Surely, there’s more to the start of the year than a blizzard of calendar sales and resolutions to snap like twigs over the knee of habit? Hope, renewal – if memory serves, those come with Spring cleaning. Until then I guess we wait like the frozen earth, mud-caked, still, statues at the gate. I keep waiting for the Word and remembering that it won’t come until I say it myself. Say it aloud. But what the hell was it? She doesn’t know either and pulls the bedding over her head.

2. I remember her teeth hovering over the rim of her glass because I got a good gag in just before she sipped. Her comeback, naturally, was just a nod with a mouthful of wine and eyebrows raised up to her bangs. It was a good one, the gag – a tidy bundle of truth and wit and lightning quick. Out of context, though, it’s about as durable as a long ash on a cigarette so I won’t bother with a reprise. Trust me, it was good. She thought so.

3. Our new organic sheet set came from a shop in West Marin. By way of India. I can’t pronounce the name of the place without making it sound suggestive. Like last night. We didn’t wash them before we put them on the bed and the pillowcases have the faint smell of shampoo-fresh dog. Or cardboard and rain, or all the other rosy shit they say about corked wine. I thought that the smell would keep me from falling asleep. Instead, I slept halfway into the next day. Now I’m on Indian time. And I don’t feel rested. India is a busy place and I get the impression I’m running behind. My wife thinks so. I check online. Turns out that India is 13 and half hours ahead. So, technically I’m in the future. This observation buys me nothing. Nor does trying the Word again. Should have waited, I thought. It plays better at night.