Mr. Rogers

Today it seems I am channeling Mr. Rogers. My beloved tells me his sweater was yellow. Mine is red. Never mind, I say. We all do things our own way.

Sometimes sleeping in

And a warm shower

Make interesting things combine

As the day begins.

The bathroom mirror

Reflects back a woman

Dressed for her professional day

The red cotton cardigan sweater,

A favorite,

Reminds her of Mr. Rogers.

She starts the song

Walking down the stairs

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,

A beautiful day for a neighbor.

Would you be mine?

Could you be mine?

Yes

This will be an interesting day.

She knows some of those

She will encounter

But perhaps

Just perhaps

Almost certainly

There will be others.

Anxiety in the rocking chair

This is one of those times I wonder what defines me, what the future holds.  My fear, of course, is that it holds nothing.   In these moments Anxiety sits across from me, stares me in the eye.  I have given her my father*s sweater jacket, the one he used to wear on his farm in Wisconsin, and my blue and white sweater socks.  She and I will go for a massage next week, get our shoulders back into place.  Right now we*re drinking tea.

Tonight I sit with Anxiety

Across from me

In the rocking chair.

She rocks

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

She wears three mismatched sweaters,

Red and purple,

Moss green knit

Fake fleece inside,

Moth hole chewed into the left sleeve,

Her father used to wear it

On the farm.

Blue and white sweater socks

Hold her feet.

Anxiety*s shoulders

Hunch up around her ears.

I promise to call tomorrow,

Make her an appointment

For a massage

Early next week.

She wonders out loud

If tea would be a good idea.

What a good idea

I say

Let me put the kettle on.