It’s what makes the pancake hold still
while you slip the spatula under it
so fast it doesn’t move, my father said
standing by the stove.
All motion stopped when he died.
With his last breath the earth
lurched to a halt and hung still on its axis,
the atoms in the air
coming to rest within their molecules,
and in that moment
something slid beneath me
so fast I couldn’t move.
“Moment of Inertia” by Debra Spencer from Pomegranate
My sister sent me an email:
When I read this poem today I had vivid memories of making pancakes with dad and him saying “only flip them once – when you see bubbles that’s the time to flip them, but only once” that was his steak cooking theory too. be patient and only flip once.
I myself have ruined way more pancakes than I’ve flipped properly or prettily. I did not inherit Papa Moss’ patience gene, but the poem is lovely. Perfect.
Today after lunch my brood and I were lined up at the door to come in. I was giving my We-Are-Not-In-A- Circus speech, when one of the kiddos let out a high pitched squeal and pointed up into the sky.
I may have screamed. I don’t recall.
We all stared up at the black plastic bag filled with air, pirouetting 200 feet over our heads. It spun over our bungalow, then caught an updraft and soared even higher. Every one of us stood there transfixed. Craning our necks in unison. After a few minutes the bag drifted down.
gasps of dismay
mouths shaped like O’s
Down the bag came on the street side of the fence. Back to earth where it started. There was a collective sigh. We tromped inside.
The feeling as we watched that old bag carried on the wind: pure delicious wonder.
Nothing I’ve written so far has anything to do with the accompanying photos. That’s just the way I roll some days.
I did want to mention the lack of writing on my visual journal pages lately. I’m still writing I just do it afterwards. It’s a solution that has brought me home to my book. I have to keep some parts for myself. The tiny spread up top are the finished pages.