When I think about the stars and how far away they are and how many, I get so I have to sit down.
And then I remember that matter cannot be created or destroyed, which means nothing ever leaves. Not dogs or fleas or mockingbirds or Jefferson’s eyelashes. The dust stirred by the hem of Cleopatra’s robe is still here. It all returns, all of it, some way or another.
My mother could have been a color or a drop of rain. What if I missed her? Will she come back again?
No tuna for the cats this week. These are the first of the season and Social Security only stretches so far. Time for homemade strawberry shortcake with real cream.
Fifty years ago you kissed Estee Lauder Swiss Strawberry off my lips. When all the kids had measles, you picked tiny wild berries and put them in my great-grandmother’s Satsuma teacup. At your passing, my world turned red. How would I get by alone?
This evening for supper, fresh hot biscuits, sugar-topped and brown, will pillow an old woman’s memories. The cats will have the cream.
Spring cleaning for this blog! Once a week, I plan to post a photo and write a story that has nothing to do with me or the photo. Artist’s exercise: take a photo, print it, and live with it for a week until it tells a story.