from
mosaic (4) by freda karpf
Meanwhile, she realized
it must have seemed as if she had been advertising menopause as a way to
improve your life to her sister.
Menopause, the pause that refreshes.
She was using it as an excuse for everything. Quickly the idea of menopause being a feel
good commodity evolved into something else.
Menopause can be the time you give yourself the freedom to do as you
wish. She wished for a solid few minutes
of peace and coherence. Mostly, Mrs. Scattergood
realized, she didn’t have thoughts, she had vapors.
~
Her mind turned towards the crows she saw
earlier on her way home. They took over
the top of a dead tree. They stood out
sharply against the background of the sky and the lace of the bare
branches. Their raggedy wings reminded
her of the fringes on her Annie Oakley jacket she had as a kid in Newark. The
fringe would fly behind her when she rode her bike. She felt like she had
wings. She loved crow talk. But what a bunch of yentas. How’s this connect to
the change? Newark is a place and
menopause is a state of mind. She wasn’t
so disconnected from her flying fringe days.
But was it the crows or menopause that was bringing her closer? Fears
and loss distort reality. Fear will take
residence without belonging. That’s what
you have to watch out for. Wise women
will tell you to describe reality to dissipate your fears. When you do this, fear loses ground the way
the ocean wears away a pile of sand on the beach.
~
Baubo was standing in her kitchen for her.
Baubo ready on a wink to stir something Mrs. Scattergood thought she had
forgotten. There’s times everything that you know is hard to recall. As she
headed home, Mrs. Scattergood could hardly remember anything, though she tried
to pull upon her brain cords and snap the synapses back into shape. It just wasn’t happening. This could account
for her being dog tired.
~
Every now and then Mrs. Scattergood would
sense that she was part of a
strange migration through time. Who would have thought she'd mourn her
brother Jerry so much? Both he and Claire were her links to her growing up
time. There is also the dill express,
that engine that drives her over to the produce aisle to smell the dill. Every time she went to the market she smelled
dill and inhaled it like it was oxygen.
It's the straight route to her mother. Aromatic dill is a way to hear
her mother’s voice. She cannot stop it
and doesn’t want to. Who would want
to? Sometimes the dill is flat and
lifeless. The smell is gone. Dissipated through the ventilation system in
the market. What a waste. No chance to take a deep dill breath. No
comfort there. She looks around, envy and jealousy orbiting her mind. Everyone
was breathing the dill but missing the pungent essence. When it was good it was dilly good and she
could inhale dill down to her toes, for a moment feeling reunited with her
mother.
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