Daisy O’Grady is a Witch

Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels.com

I saw Daisy, my longtime friend, in the window of a bookshop on Hamilton Avenue. She was wrapped in cellophane, sitting in a large Easter basket that overflowed with children’s books. Oh, she wore clothes. What were you thinking? An explanatory sign said,  “Ask me about my favorite book.”

I was flummoxed. Daisy hasn’t read a book in years; she’s more into Tarot. If she reads to her grandchildren, she’s kept me in the dark.

I pulled a wig and a pointy hat from my capacious old lady purse. I had the perfect question for her. “Guess What? Yes or No.”

(Guess What? By Mem Fox. A fun read. Also a banned book in Florida for an “old lady in a bathtub” illustration. (But I suspect it’s because Daisy is a witch.)

More Heat, More Bugs

Photo by Piet Bakker on Pexels.com

A click beetle or a cockroach? It’s small. A thumbnail; less than a thumbprint. What is it doing in my house? Lost, I suppose. A wayward adolescent. It’s run away from home. It’s looking for a job. I would never hire it.

It’s reassuring to anthropomorphize this bug. I don’t want to imagine it climbing into the cupboards, eating up my pantry stock. Which brings to mind the black weevily bugs I found in the cranberry beans.

How Zen am I today? Should I start a bug circus? Get rid of all bugs for all time? Musings from an overheated brain.

A Reminder Was All It Took

Photo by Macourt Media on Pexels.com

Bright lines, my husband lives by bright lines, clear rules that guide him. This is something I love about him.

I didn’t notice that an SUV had pulled alongside us and crossed the green line into the bike lane. The traffic sign was clear. The turn arrow inside a crossed out circle. No turn on red, in case they needed more to establish a bright line. They did. They had a nose in the crosswalk. They might have turned.

A firm honk from my husband; the SUV waited for the light. Like I would once I’m reminded there is a line.

Friendship

Photo by Tiwi Riders on Pexels.com

I remember the motorcycle he rode.

I remember sneaking off with him when he was sixteen. I was fourteen, full of elaborate excuses; girlfriends who vouched for me. Wind in my face, the noise, the leather jacket and the helmet. I saved up, hid them at his house.

I remember when he told me he was gay.

I remember how cool I played it. “I wondered,” I said. I thought, what were the chances he was wrong?

I remember every unworthy person he dated. I’d ask him, “Are you sure? What do you see?”

He’d say, “You’re my best friend.”

Irresistible Impulse

Photo by Alexander Popadin on Pexels.com

He said- You said, Yes.

She said- I said, not yet. Another time. A later time.

He said- But your eyes said yes

She said- My eyes don’t speak for me.

He said- Your eyes speak to me.

She said- Looks can deceive.

He said- So you admit it? You lied. Those gorgeous blue eyes lied?

She said- You should have known. You should have asked, clarified, not taken things at face value.

He said- Whatever. Now we have this adorable cat. 

She said- This purring cat, we’re cat parents now.

He said- I’m a sucker for gorgeous blue eyes.

A Healthy Dose of Skepticism Is What We Need.

Photo by AI25.Studio Studio on Pexels.com

The ad popped up in a search. Bottled impulse control. There it was, an amazing new drug that claimed to be the cure for the closet shopaholic. Impulse control. Another way of saying, “Caveat emptor,” for those who don’t know Latin.

A pill. I was skeptical. But the hype that accompanied the pill convinced me. “Do you believe everything you hear in this world of make-believe? Then this is the pill for you. Sales resistance in a bottle. Just 20 dollars will save you hundreds in foolish purchases.”

I put it in my cart. I hovered over “Buy.” I clicked.

Free as a Dog

Photo by u5927 u8463 on Pexels.com

The warm weather brought out the dogs. They roamed without leashes. They found each other and played, the poodles and the labs and the scrappy mutts. Their people strolled along the tree-lined streets, digging in their pockets for treats. 

A kind of amnesia had made them all forget to whom they belonged. They started fresh in a world where it’s not dog-eat-dog. Utopia. And then, the oddest thing happened. The universe snapped its fingers. The dogs and people sorted themselves out. Back to the way things were. The sense of bonhomie, a vague impression that lingered as a subliminal image.

The Shape of Summer

Photo by Jan van der Wolf on Pexels.com
The longest day of the year starts like many others,
Warmth, wind, light through the window. 

Mind quiet, there's one image from a dream.
One tree rooting, spreading, rippling in a half grown field. 
You must tend that field

Because it’s summer.

Solstice, not spring and fall equinox, bookends for the growing season. 
Not the fallow darkness of winter.
Summer, the middle months where the year’s threads weave together, still taking shape.
The place where imagination has taken you, but not yet left you.
The summer when there is light and warmth and life is a petri dish for productivity.

Clancy Hits It Home

Photo by Bryce Carithers on Pexels.com

Clancy struck out for the third time. He was distraught. The love of his life had left with the ballboy that morning. He hadn’t seen it coming. Like that ball he’d missed by just a hair.

“A hair,” his coach said. “More like a country mile. Go get your eyes examined.”

Clancy made an appointment. The optometrist told him that with his vision it was a miracle  he’d ever hit a ball. She also made the observation that his girlfriend needed glasses. And she said yes when he asked her out for dinner. He only hit home runs after that.

The Oddest Things Happen When Mrs. Potts Takes a Walk.

Photo by Bilal Furkan KOu015eAR on Pexels.com
Trees gather like a fairy ring around a fallen trunk.
Elephants gather to mourn their dead.
They trumpet the loss.
They stay for long enough that the sky
Turns color on multiple days.

Mrs. Potts changes the color 
Of her dress from brown to blue to black.
She walks the neighborhood
To distract herself. She nods hello.
She makes everyone feel safe.

Mrs. Potts firmly says, “I do not believe in fairies.
Elves, yes.” Elves clean her kitchen at night.
They almost never sleep.
Like Mrs. Potts herself, they are creatures of habit.
They gather by fallen trees, like elephants.