A slight drizzle fell
on her face. There is a Huna prayer that says ‘let the blessings fall like
rain.’ The wind teased a faint of summer
from the warmth on her face. She could
smell the sand and feel the grit in her shoes.
She remembered an old man who hammered bent nails straight so that he
could use them again. She found nails
for him in the small drifts of sandy soil behind the bungalows. They pushed up through the half inch channels
surrounding the cement blocks. This was
a grey day activity when it wasn’t a beach day.
This is where her love of alleyways came from. They weren’t legit alleyways like in the city
but they held a sense of mystery and they were secluded from the eyes of
walkers by. That lack of scrutiny alone
meant they were potent with possibility.
Nickels stood up in the small dunes of dirt like a ruin revealed by the
accident of time and wind. Pennies
too. Nickels were pinball money and also
what those grab ‘em up games cost, the ones that taunted you with toys that
were just shy of the grasping mechanical claw. Pennies were a solid purchase
though. You could buy movie star cards cast in sepia tones. Mrs. Scattergood is
not a collector now. Unless you count
sayings.
~
The rain touched her face as gently as the
wind. It was balmy and seemed like a
good excuse to avoid thinking clearly.
She was not ready for spring.
Felt the same way about summer. Spring just means summer is coming. For
a while spring became her favorite season.
When she realized it was full of summer at the back end with all its
expectations, she leaned back into winter when you could count on being able to
get away with some lethargy. Even so,
something is always cooking. As you
don’t have to put your mind to it, you can try to relax. There’s days like that and apparently some
seasons too. Let the rain fall like
prayers. The way is open to the couch or the wandering, the alleyway or waking
up at the beach. ‘It doesn’t matter’,
she thought. It’s even a kind of blessing.
~
Mrs. Scattergood stretched her arms and
looked at the clouds. There were no trees in sight. But she enjoyed knowing that the sky holds up the trees and pulls
the colors out of the leaves. Geologists admit that periods of time have no
certain start or finish. Hers began by falling in love with flowers, those
promises of color peeking through the gate in the bud, and those that open into
their own full bloom. One spring she experienced a shift. “I wish I could tell you that it was a slow,
patient passion that opened in me the way nasturtiums finally show their heat
in full summer.” She fell in love with a woman. Not just in the spring but
again in the summer. Apparently, she was a non-stop begonia. She had been
searching for ways to write about the earth. It could be related. Who knows?
It was a new period for her. She had to confess, amidst all the changes,
that she began to feel a sense of belonging even though spring fever can produce
a sense of weightlessness. It’s like being awake for the first time. Apart from the getting and going, spring just
is. Even the shadows are different. Painting and dancing until summer turns them
into refuge.
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