“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

7.20.2014

sunday girly sunday


my grandmother's trunk and an old sheet tossed over a small stack of blankets.
the cat likes to sleep there.

today is jeans with a faded tshirt, fingernails broken, toenails painted.  no mascara, no eyeliner, but yes to a bit of lipgloss.  more gray and silver in my hair and even a bit of white now mixed into the brown.  pearls around my wrist.  mexican food with my brother and his family for lunch; he noticed the table next to us, a one dollar tip left by two women.  perhaps the waitress deserved no more, perhaps the women had no more to leave.  but it was sunday lunchtime busy and i had a couple of bucks in my pocket.  i tossed them over to the table before the waitress returned. sunday, i said. tithing. and we all laughed.

out of church tithing was an accidental lesson my mother taught me.
it's the small things that stay with you. 

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7.15.2014

july song


a quarter past eight, 90 degrees.  cooler than yesterday.  the sun has dropped behind the trees on the hill, striping my living room with the softness of day's last light.  the cicadas start their summertime song, a goodbye to the day, a welcome to the night, never mind that true night is still an hour or so away. it is coming, and that is good enough for a song.

i have had the door open all day, ignoring the air conditioning bill that will come.
closed doors are for wintertime.

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7.06.2014

four days


a moment of rain and deliberate unfocusness.

awakened by thunder, blue skies overhead, gray skies off thataway, and rain like christmas tree icicles, falling strings of silver lit by morning sunlight.  and then, just like that, gone, replaced by the sounds of birds and distant sirens.  july 3.

fireworks, cicadas, but also mosquitoes.  i'd chased a crow through my dreams that morning, through a storm of gray and green, shallow depth of field, the crow in focus, but little else. it stood on the limbs of trees bent by hard winds, watching me follow, leading me on, knowing i wouldn't escape the storm without saving it.  knowing i couldn't, knowing i needn't try.  i'd tossed the cat into a car from my childhood, and pushed my mother behind the steering wheel, but i couldn't go back to them empty handed. the crow was my compass. i was frantic, crying, led on by the bird's arrogance, and then the thunder woke me.  i don't think it means anything.

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i've been reading still, rolling my eyes at the author who complained it took her a whole month to recuperate from teaching nine months, complaining that that only left her with two months of vacation. she should know better than to say things like that out loud. in fact, it stopped my reading of her book, though only temporarily - i'll be back, but i needed a bit of summer fiction after that.

i've been writing also, slogging through words as if they really matter. it is messy hard work; some days all i do is wipe the mud off my feet before coming in, leaving all the words outside, to skitter away back from whence they came - i see their tracks across the next morning's concrete, back into the wild.  escape.  how fabulous that must feel.

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friday was movies - all day and all of the night.  yesterday, the lake.  a new pink swimsuit.  chips, salsa, boats.  cuban music, the same two songs over and over in the jeep on the way home.  today, clementines.  lord of the rings.  one orange day lily perfectly centered against the hackberry tree. sunshine. the cat asleep in my tshirt drawer. open doors and a bed with freshly laundered sheets.

no vacation in years and years, but there are all those things.
all of them.  

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