Today's my birthday! This post isn't meant to be auto-biographical, although I can relate to some of it. But writing it made me smile. I hope you smile when you read it.
Forever young, she thought, forever young. I wish I were forever young. But no. Bodies age. They betray. She flexed her hands, fingers bent with arthritis, knuckles large. Skin thin. Easily bruised. Not fair. Back bent Shoulders stooped Turkey neck Stiff joints Sore hips Spare tires Saggy jowls False teeth Gray hair – albeit thin. At least something is thin, she thought, and continued her reverie Creaky knees Varicose veins Swollen ankles Can’t reach my toes Bodies betray Friends die But, she thought, my mind is young. My brain still works. I my head, I soar. I dance. I skip. I run. I have fun. Without care. Without fear. Of falling. Of breaking. Thin bones. Fake hips New knees Will they allow me to hike the hills and valleys where I live? To walk in sand and wade in waves? Please knees. You are forever young. I am posting my November 5 entry early because I will be working a polling place starting at 6 tomorrow morning and won't be back home until 10-ish pm. I hope we are REALLY BUSY and that EVERYONE VOTES.
Voting is our right - sometimes a hard fought right. Voting is our responsibility as citizens. Democracy doesn't without participation. And that means voting. VOTE! Pindi, a fairy, woke up with a start, sitting up on the leaf she used as a bed. “I heard something. Something loud and violent, like an explosion. Did you hear it, too?” she asked her sister Mindi. Mindi slept on a leaf close by. She shook her head sleepily.
“No, you’re dreaming. Its still dark outside. Go back to sleep.” Pindi doubted she would be able to go back to sleep. Her heart was pounding. But she laid down and turned on her side and closed her eyes. And began to drift. “Fire! I smell smoke. Its so smoky. I can’t breathe. I can’t see!” Pindi jolted awake again. This time Mindy didn’t argue. “I smell it, too.” She said. “I’m afraid. What should be do?” Mindi was too frightened to move. She froze. “Look!” Pindi exclaimed, standing up and pointing her finger as the flashing red light. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. She heard the piercing sound of a siren coming ever closer. Closer. “The house where the giants live is on fire. I need to go see if they got out. They helped us when the spiders attacked. I have to help them!” And she flew off, coughing and waving her hands against the smoke, her eyes stinging and tearing. “I have to help.” She saw them, those she thought of as her giants, standing huddled together in the street, wrapped in a blanket. Relief flooded Pindi. She heard the rumble of an engine and the screech of brakes as the fire truck pulled up. Doors opened and slammed as fire fighters jumped from the truck. Pindi watched from her perch in the Weeping Cherry tree as the fire fighters yanked and pulled a long hose, uncurling it as they ran towards the fire hydrant. Other firefighters ran towards the house. WOOSH. A strong spray of water exploded from the hose. “I’m drowning” yelled Mindi from the Japanese maple. “Too much water. Too much water” Water cascaded from the roof and rained down on the Japanese Maple in torrents. “Go further inside the tree!” shouted Pindi, as she flew back to the home tree, trying to avoid the spray of water. “We’ll be safe there.” The sisters watched the heroic firefighters drown the fire and save the giants’ house. They didn’t go back to sleep that night. No one did. I am in awe of the writers I write with every Tuesday morning
Most of them write in memoir style, narrative stories about their lives The write honestly and authentically, vividly and elegantly They use words to communicate, to instruct, to illustrate their lives I am always moved I rarely write in memoir style I wrap my words in stories, tie them with humor and verse I don’t tell my life overtly Yet they see through me every time See right into my soul And they know what my words are trying to say And I am always moved
We played in our writing group the other day. We decorated paper bags and filled them with candy. It put me in a silly mood. Here's what I wrote.
My paper bag has a tree With a blue and green trunk No leaves And a blue bird sitting prettily Avoiding a cat. My paper bag tree has pink fruit I thought they were apples And placed a basket near the trunk. But they really are letters Waiting to be plucked to form words And then phrases, sentences, ideas Stories, poems, novels, tomes. My paper bag tree has a heart at the base of its trunk Because that’s the way I sign things, with a heart. There’s a watering can near my tree So it can be nurtured So more words can be grown So more thoughts can be known So a Halloween author can write of a bone So the letters can be harvested If they fall to the ground like over-ripe apples They aren’t done They still can have fun Being baked into words And lined up in a row There are stories to tell. |
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