Friday, October 21, 2005

Indian Summer of an Uncle

"Gambler tried to be a family man, though it didn't suit his style..." - Warren Zevon

I've always striven to be an avuncular figure, having benefited from many such people myself. One of the beauties of uncledom is that it probably affords the greatest opportunity for corruption of minors, while requiring the least convincing credentials as a relative. In recent months, I have been blazing new territory as an uncle, not of the cigar-smoking and racetrack-frequenting but the diaper-changing and baby-rocking brand.

If this sounds unusual, let me begin by reassuring you all that my brother, despite a thriving practice as a heterosexual, has not sired any offspring. Rather, I have been named uncle on an honorary basis, this being the best kind. Since July, I have enjoyed an exalted position with seven-month-old Molly Zander Franklin, she of the very big hair. Then, a few minutes after midnight on Wednesday, Oct 12, the world welcomed one of its newest constituents, Sage Beryl Tarozzi Melton, who checked in at a robust 8 lbs 6 oz. I had the pleasure of visiting this charming individual yesterday evening, although I had a devil of a time getting Uncle Pete (Conway VIII) to relinquish her for even a moment.

Sage's parents, Forrest (an earth scientist) and Kristine (a dancer), have teamed up on a number of ventures before, and have always hit a home run. It was no surprise, then, that their latest and most important contribution should be so stupendous. In days of yore, momentous events required that the poets of the age chip in with an occasional poem, and while I have always shrugged off the title of "poet", thinking it rather akin to "bum", I did hazard a sonnet in honor of Ms. Melton. It is slightly sweeter in sentiment than my usual fare, but give the kid a break - she's less than ten days old.


for Sage Beryl Tarozzi Melton

It's almost something of a magic trick,
A mystery sublime on which to pore,
This strange and wonderful arithmetic:
How love combined with love makes something more.

The glint of glass, the headiest of scents
And greenery enough for woodland elves;
You fashioned her of precious elements –
A leaf, a stone. And something of yourselves.

She'll grow to love the mountains and the sea
And revel in the wild and the wet.
She'll dance above the bounds of gravity,
And teach the gasping clouds to pirouette.

Look upward now. A harvest moon's agleam.
Bid sleep goodbye – and welcome in your dream.


Anonymous kate the great said...

It may just be that I'm a woman in the frickin' peak of baby-wanting-ness, but your poem made me tear up. Holy shit, that's beautiful.

8:10 PM  
Blogger Mithril Gold said...

Hey Gabe,
Loved your poem. It's just amazing. Hope you're doing well man! Drop me a line anytime.

1:54 AM  
Blogger k said...

That's a pretty awesome poem. I also enjoyed your letter to the editor in the Monterey County Herald today, it was very Barak Obamaish.

8:29 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

You're entirely incredible.

11:11 PM  

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