And, So it Is . . .

Crystal clear, blue sky, warm sun; cool breeze.
It was a perfectly beautiful Spring day.
The kind of day you want to permanently capture in your mind,
     and take a trip there, anytime that you please.

Flying around, with not a care in the world, until . . .

SNAP!  

He chose to land on the wrong spot.

Across the air, he sailed, landing on the hard, rustic surface;
     lying, helpless, on his back - his legs, dangling, toward the sky.  

Why, why, WHY did he have to land on my finger like that? I asked.

When I was a child, I would not even harm an ant,
     believing that all creatures had a purpose and deserved a chance.  
Watching him wriggle and squirm, I just could not take it.
I removed the shoe from my foot, and . . .

WHACK! 

I had to do it.
It's all over for him now.

And, so it is . . .

     one minute, flying around, happy and carefree,
           enjoying the blue sky, the warm sun, the cool breeze . . .
     the next - unrecognizable, lying squished on a dead piece of wood.

In that moment, just for a brief moment, as I was feeling the weight of my sorrow,
     I stared at that dead, squished bug, and thought,

I wish someone would put me out of my misery.

Just for a moment, you know?

But, I am the one with the feet and,
     as weakened as my spirit may be,
I have to lift myself up and carry the weight of my troubles . . .

     see the sky, feel the sun, touch the breeze . . .

AND, JUST TRY NOT TO LAND 
                       ON THE WRONG SPOT.  


 
     

Images of Spring

Intruder in the Night

1a.m.

I awake to my dog, 
     who is practically standing on my face.

     What the . . . ? ? ?

I pry him off of me and,
     like a leech (only, soft and fuzzy; not slimy and wet) . . . 

okay, more like a lint filled dryer sheet, 

                      he is now stuck to my face.

He won't budge.

     What the . . . ? ? ?

Then, I hear it.

Chirp . . .
                         
       chirp . . .

That sound that terrorizes my dog, filling him with fear,
     and sending him into a frenzy, as he frantically searches for a safe place to hide.

Dog:  WHERE CAN I HIDE ? ? ?

Me:  Why does this shit only happen at night ? ? ? 

Chirp . . .
       
       chirp . . .

                                                                  

I know that I will not get any sleep, until I take care of the problem.

I get out of bed, and try to locate the source. 

As I suspected, it is coming from downstairs, in the front hallway.

I can't reach it, so I grab a chair from the kitchen table.

In the meantime, Charlie is glued to my feet - tail, between his legs; ears, back, 

     looking as if our house is under attack.  

I stand on a chair and grab its hard surface with my hands.  

I turn it one way, I turn it the other - it won't budge.

Chirp . . .

       chirp . . . 

At this point, 

     I am so agitated that I just want to yank the f 'ing thing from the ceiling!

BUT, I keep (patiently) turning it one way, then the other, until FINALLY, 

     the thing comes loose from the ceiling. 

I yank the battery out, set it on the table, 

                                              and give it the old STARE-DOWN.   

At this point, my dog is nowhere to be seen.

I have to send out a search party (me).      

He finally comes crawling out from somewhere, 

     and I convince him (I think) that the coast is clear, the danger is gone, 

            the battle is over, the bad guys have been chased away . . . 

but, more importantly, 

THE MEAN OLD SMOKE DETECTOR BATTERY HAS BEEN REMOVED !    

Back to bed, now.  

Please don't stand on my face. 

 

Peace. Love. Zillie's.

If you know me by now,

      you know that I have a bit of a love affair with my coffee mugs.

The warmth, 

          the comfort,  

               the way that each one feels in my hands,  

     the stories they have to tell . . .    

 ( Yes, we are still talking about coffee mugs. )

This one reminds me of a beautiful day in Ocracoke:  

     Whiling away the hours on the front porch of Zillie's Pantry.    

     The warmth of a stone pit fireplace; 

the chill of an ice cold beer.  

     The comfort of passing the time with one who knows me;

          the thrill of making new friends who don't.     

   

   

Peace.    Love.    Zillie's. 

  

Companionship

He has gotten used to me being around.

On most mornings, during the week, he would watch as I would go about my routine -
      putting my clothes on, doing my hair, putting on my makeup . . . and,
when I would walk downstairs and grab my keys, my purse, and my coffee mug,
      he knew.

He would solemnly walk over to his chair -
      the one with the front seat view to the outside world,
(and the best angle for watching my car exit and enter the driveway). 

And, with ears and tail down, he would watch, as I would walk out the side door.   

But, this week has been different.

He has gotten used to me being around.

I have been getting up a little later and, in an effort to jump start my day,
     making daily trips to the nearby drive-thru Starbucks.
So, when I put my shoes on, instead of walking over to his chair,
     he runs over to the side door, hoping and expecting that I will say the magic words . . .
            "Charlie, come!"
And, as the door opens up, he leaps outside (before the opportunity is lost),
     and waits eagerly, yet patiently, for me to open the passenger side door.   

"YES!" he seems to say, as he positions himself in his seat.

Another day together.    

 



 

A Stranger Who Noticed

Standing in line at the grocery store one cold, misty,
     gray Saturday in February (no makeup on, and hair untouched) . . . 
your eyes caught mine (one register up), and you did not look away,
     but, instead, you smiled.
And, something about the way that you smiled,
     I could not help myself from smiling back.

It was a small, subtle, HINT of a smile, but enough for you to notice.  

And, suddenly, I felt like a shy school girl.

I blushed, in spite of myself, and turned away.

Seconds later, you passed me by with your cart full of groceries,
     and, through the corner of my eye,
I could feel your gaze and your warm smile.

But, I did not have the courage to take a second glance.

You were just a stranger who noticed . . .
               on a day when I did not know I needed noticing.  

 

The Cheerful Brit

I went to my local convenience store, today,
     to pick up some much needed body lotion and shaving cream.

When I walked up to the check-out counter (where I was pleasantly surprised to find no line),
     a tall, thin, mostly bald, and seemingly very approachable man stood at the cash register.

One would think one SHOULD seem approachable in such a circumstance, however,
     as we all know, that is very often NOT the case.

As I set my items on the counter, he spoke. 

     "And, what are YOU smiling about, lovely lady?"

I was not even aware that I was smiling. 

As a bright light came streaming through the window above,
     causing me to squint my eyes,
I replied, 

     "It must be the sunshine."

Winters in the Washington DC area usually consist of
                                                                 day after day (after day)
                                               of gray . . . gray . . . gray. 

I immediately noticed his accent, and asked where he was from. 

     "England," he replied.  "I am a Brit, as they say."

We exchanged a few pleasantries, as he rang up my items,
      and as he handed me my bag, he said, 

                         "You have a good day, my love."   

I smiled, as I thought of my girlfriend in England, and all of the conversations we have had. 

What would she say if I told her that a Brit made me smile today?