“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


you just slip out the back, jack

sometimes in the mornings, there are black moths waiting in a row across the top of my white bathroom curtains, settled next to each other close to the new day's sun, caught indoors the night before when i closed the doors and closed the windows and shushed the lights.  i open the window and they are gone.  disappeared before my very eyes.

the art of leaving.



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. 



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.