“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


the chef sang in spanish

i have been sick and she may be the best cat ever for when you are sick, better even than maggie, cat-of-my-heart, cat-of-my-usedtobe-life; she puts her face to mine and meows, and if she has a shortcoming, it may be that, that she is here too much, her face in mine, all worried looks and feed-me-now meows - i'm not blind enough to not notice it's not all about me, that part of her concern is that i'm the one who knows how to open the cat food.  for the most part though, she comes and goes, inside and out, onto the bed and off, helloing me, making sure i'm still here, curling into sleep next to me.


10 days into november we were covered with sunshine, warm breezes blowing leaves from the trees, the lawn more yellow than green.  11 days in we woke to rain and november looked more like she should - a bit tired,  a bit end of the day, can't wait to get out of those clothes that bind, trying to catch her breath before holiday season.  still sick, my bed was piled with lemon drops and butterscotch candy, my kindle filled with $2.99 western novels.  i went from hot to cold and back again and watched the wind outside the window, feeling much like early november looked.

ah, but here past the midpoint?   the leaves are suddenly red and orange and falling golden into my days.  i listened once again to christmas carols on my way to work and watched small flocks of birds against this morning's blue sky, swooping in slow perfect rhythm to have yourself a merry little christmas,  their white bellies and frilly underneath feathers an indecent flash of petticoats outlined by sober gray; tonight a crescent moon in that same sky, almost dark, almost night, as i passed a window curtained with scarlet sheets, a lamp's light its own moon in the rectangle of red.  and lunch?  lunch, my sweet friends, was migas, no cheese, no onions, just jalapeños please, the eggs scrambled hard, muchas gracias,  a small cafe filled with silence and heaven, when what to our wondering ears should appear but a song sung in spanish, the chef loudly singing to himself as he cooked, his voice full of happy, preparing our food con alegría y amor, with joy and love.  with joy and love.

'tis the season of small moments and unasked for gifts.
i could not stop smiling.



  1. I can see the pictures of your words. Makes me smile.

  2. beautiful. thank you! this sends joy through my soul. and i loove butterscotch!

  3. This slowed my mind. Thank you. I hope your throat is feeling back to normal.

  4. and now, I am smiling. i am exhausted after a day of being "on," and this was the perfect transition, the perfect inhale, exhale, smile.
    i love the indecent petticoats... what a fabulous image.
    and i hope you are feeling better. xoxo

  5. Texas is as foreign to me as a European country. Mexican foods, your trees with strange sounding names. I always love your references to them.
    Get better, good writer.
    In fondest. Tilda

  6. sometimes I don't comment here because all I can offer up is a limp "beautiful" - because your writing disengages the bones from my knees and the strength in my tongue, and leaves me weak, speechless, in love.


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