Through the wall, the rush of water, my daughter’s voice—singing the Decemberists’ “Infanta.” We’ve never been to Boston; we’re here to look at colleges over Thanksgiving break. Not Harvard. She likes Rhode Island School of Design, in Providence. I’m glad she’s an artist—I get the chance to understand her. We toured the RISD campus, which they call Rizdee. Smelled the turpentine in the day-lit studios. In the Film Building, I let my fingers rest on the edge of a take-up reel while I spun the rewind, just to hear it sing, like when I was in film school.
On the hotel television I’m watching a PBS show about turkeys. The show sneaks up on me. A man named Joe Hutto is incubating sixteen wild turkey eggs. He wants to imprint them—to be their mother—and raise them, to get a look into their world. Here is a close up of speckled eggs, with Joe in the background, making convincing turkey sounds. The eggs—the eggs—answer back, peeping, and I weep.
It’s good to get my weeping done while she’s in the shower. She thinks I cry too easily at the television. The eggs pip. Joe is so full of awe;… Read more »