Sunday, January 16, 2005

later than usual

sunday morning and the only sounds, if there are sounds at all, are mine and the Dog's. the Boy and his friends left for home last night after a lush and savory dinner at a wonderful little restaurant, Nat Porters's, in Warren, Rhode Island. Crackling fires in the three dining rooms, and plates heaped with food. My father holding court at the head of the table, genuinely interested in the lives of the four twenty-something young actors, his grandson, of whom he is enormously proud, being one. I find myself unable to relax, managing everyoe's moods and tastes -- have we travelled too far afield, is everyone having a good time, what should i be talking about in order to connect with these fabulous kids, who am i as someone's mother, as someone's daughter, unable to leave any of these questions long enough to sit back and relish the meal and the moment.

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