We are met with ordinary devotion

DICTEE ends with a short passage:

Lift me up mom to the window the child looking above too high above her view....

Lift me up to the window the white frame and the glass between....

Lift me to the window to the picture image unleash the ropes tied to weights of stones first the ropes then its scraping on wood to break stillness as the fells fall peal follow the sound of ropes holding weight scraping on wood to break stillness bells fall a peal to sky.

This time, I am struck by the simplicity of the request, Lift me up mom, lift me up to the window to see. A repeated plea of childhood, the repeated gesture of the parent, up to the window, up so they can see.

The baby cries, you tend to it. The call and response.

Utter dependence met with the direct simplicity of ordinary devotion.

"What would you like to have that no one will take away?" The narrator of Joan Fiset's Now the Day Is Over, asks. It is a warm home in the late afternoon, awaiting a meal taken together. Knowing that it will happen tonight, as it did yesterday, as it will tomorrow. Security, consistency, predictability.

Last night, an unexpectedly lovely dinner party at a long table beneath an ornate chandelier, its faceted crystals washed pink in the late light. We sit, passing greens and braided bread. Chatter interrupted by impromptu toasts -- to each other, to the meal, to the generosity of our hosts. Despite my initial reluctance, it feels good to be out, among friends and acquaintances, drinking pink wine from juice glasses, attempting (and failing) to hold several threads of conversation in mind.

Sitting next to D., we bring our heads close together to hear each other speak. We are the elders, now, and tonight that is enough.