Georgette is a river, she’s a river in the sky.
She rains. She runs off. She flows. She flows away.
She returns the next season, or the next year.
And I haven’t smoked a brisket for more than three months.
***
I answered my phone with a curt “Where are you now?”
“The ocean.”
“I hate the ocean.”
“He’ll be gone for three days.”
“You’ve been gone for three months.”
“Bring your barbecue grill,” she said and hung up.
***
A week later, the voicemail said, “Why didn’t you come? You are too hard on yourself. On me. He’s back. We’ll have you out for a weekend. He has a barbecue grill you can use.
***
Monica said, “Mom builds sand castles in the sky.”
“You have to build them somewhere.”
Monica wiped the barbecue sauce off her chin and said, “I’d build mine at the bottom of the ocean.”
“It’s as good a place as any.”
***
I gathered her umbrellas and put them in the garage. A season or two–or a year or two–will pass before she needs them again.
The cistern is full and can keep the herb garden irrigated in her absence.
There’s much to cook–much to eat–in her absence, and upon her return.
Time, temperature, and technique apply as much to rivers and sand castles as to culinary creations.
***
“You’re my moat,” she said once, and only once.
“I protect your sand castles in the sky.”
She didn’t answer. She pretended not to hear.
***
Georgette is a river, she’s a river in the sky.
She rains. She runs off. She flows. She flows away.
She returns the next season, or the next year.
And you never love the same Georgette twice.
