HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
PERHAPS THE WORLD ENDS HERE
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat
to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it
has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the cor-
ners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be
human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the
shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for
burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering
and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laugh-
ing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Joy Harjo
PERHAPS THE WORLD ENDS HERE
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat
to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it
has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the cor-
ners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be
human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the
shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for
burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering
and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laugh-
ing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Joy Harjo
posted by MJ at 11:04 AM
2 Comments:
Found him slumped across the table.
A gun and me alone
I ran to the window. Looked for a plane or two
Panic in Detroit.
He'd left me an autograph
"Let me collect dust."
I wish someone would phone
Panic in Detroit
--bowie
Once again I have another lovely, cherished memory of Thanksgiving with my sister, her children, the Wilnauers and my husband. These are the memories that keep me going! I give thanks to all of you for being in my life, and to Thanksgiving for being a time to celebrate the love we have for one another!
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