My dad just called to ask for the couch back from Matt saying, “but Elle, you were conceived on that couch, it can’t just go out on the street”.
Then he called back ten minutes later to play me a recording of me on TAPE (back in the late nineties, when there were still tapes) singing a song to my grandmother about how if she’d been born fifty years later she’d have been one of my best friends.
She’d have been in fine company, with some of the fiercest, most gentle, most loving, most generous, most warm, most whipsharp, most impressive women I’ve ever known. And she would have held her own.
Speaking of which, now I just gotta get ready to grab one from the airport. Much the same as when Zoe was coming, I’m so excited, I think a little pee came out*.
*ew… Mirerva, only for you would I even type that. Gross. Hence why my heat poems have sucked. Hurry up and Get Off the Damn Plane.
eleanor j jackson 