A litany for Gay.
I have written before about a weekend at the farm, my friend Gay's family place – magic, it is – in North Carolina. A weekend during which the rains of a hurricane bore down upon us, making me lie awake in my tiny twin bed wondering if the lake would overtake us, pots of grits floating by when we woke up.
It was that weekend when I found Billy. Or, rather, Gay introduced me to him. Billy who?
Pshaw. Everyone together now: Billy Collins.
She introduced me to him by reading his poem "Litany," still a favorite of mine. Because of the rain on that tin roof, Rosemary and I had to scootch very close to hear–and still Gay had to scream the poem to be heard over the rain. That fantastic Southern drawl still not disappeared after years near San Francisco, pouring torrential rain on tin, and little Billy screamed at the top of her lungs. By way of introduction, you really must read this post about my telling Billy Collins that very story WHEN WE TALKED ON THE PHONE ONE MORNING, JUST THE TWO OF US, ME AND BILLY. I'll wait right here until you come back.
So it felt only fitting to write a litany to Gay for her 60th birthday party, recently held at that very farm, under that tin roof, and–also–in the rain. Though we are unrelated and none of our last names is or ever has been Marshall, Gay, Rosemary, and I are affectionately known as The Marshall Sisters. We will always be The Marshall Sisters.
Here's my dear sweet Billy's version. Might be important to read that one first. Or, better yet, listen to The Man read it.
And here's mine. To Gay, for 60 more:
Litany for Gay
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the mean one in the convertible
and a dead ringer for Desmond Tutu.
You are the turquoise belt buckle of BIM
and the Ten Thousand Waves of the sea
However, you are not the mended bra,
the lavender ice cream in Waterford,
nor the brilliant or beautiful one.
And you are certainly not the sixty-year-old.
There is just no way you are the sixty-year-old.
It is possible that you are the itchy tart,
maybe even the whooping crane and the goddess,
but you are not even close
to being the sixty-year-old.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are dry clean only.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that you are one of the three peas,
but we are the sound of rain on the roof.
We also happen to be your oldest and dear friends,
the sound of martini glasses filled with risotto,
the chocolate tortoni at Weaver’s Cottage,
and a table set completely on fire at Rupperts.
We are also Tuscany West, Smith Mountain Lake,
and the ruby red Tupperware.
So don't worry, we are the Marshall Sisters.
We will always be the Marshall Sisters.
But we are not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and–somehow–the wine.
