Annie (the musical)

I took Annie to see Annie (1982) today. Her first movie in the movie theater. She did great. Ate an entire small popcorn by herself, down to the kernels. Sat rapt in the seat, elbow-deep in that popcorn bucket, pushing down with her legs while the seat cushion threatened to pop back up. The second half she spent in my lap, and fell asleep once, during the Easy Street song—grown-up stuff. She was attentive and polite through the whole adventure, and saved the questions for the way home.

Why didn’t Annie have a mom and dad?
Why was she all alone?
How do we die?

Oh, girl. You keep me on my toes.


A colleague gave me a book of poetry as a parting gift from my previous job. I put down the dreadful paper this morning and read three poems about the morning. My favorite, by Jane Kenyon:

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.