early spring, late night

peekaboo selfie in the old mirror behind the couch.

a bit of light, the cat nestled near, a book, a coke,

the door open to darkness.

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Spring has come early, in bits and pieces. The flowering trees bloomed against the still bare limbs of the hackberry tree, the catawba, the pecan. Azaleas were quickly pink across the street, Katie's bridal veil blossoms white against the edge of the creek in the back yard. I sat down next to a fat bunch of paperwhites the other week and childhood memories, from out of nowhere, surprised me, sat down next to me, pushed against me, took up room I wasn't expecting to give.

This is where she hid the Easter eggs,  I remembered, all of a sudden back in those days when the Easter Bunny still visited. It wouldn't have been those paperwhites or this neighborhood, but I knew. I knew. I saw the pale yellow of the old house, a house my youngest brother doesn't remember, the bright daylight, the white trim on the windows. The shade of trees, the small front porch. I was there once again.

things come back around.  they never leave you.  people go, your favorite pets go, you move, you grow older, and if you're lucky, you grow old, and if you're lucky lucky, you keep your memories. i'd sat down like a child, legs folded, eye to eye with the coming spring, and there it was, a piece of my childhood.  was it the fading afternoon light that called it, the sound of birds?  the feel of the changing season?  or was it just me, sitting, communing with the flowers?

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I have been long gone from this place. I thought I'd locked the door, but like most places, if you want in bad enough, you'll figure a way. Break a window, find the key you thought was lost. Kick, hit, pound. It will require a wanting. Sometimes it just requires the truth. Yesterday, when someone asked, I told her that truth. Sometimes I stay silent instead of answering, standing outside the closed door, the found key in my hand, scared to open all the old rooms. Too tired to start over, to sweep away the cobwebs. But she asked and I told her, and I felt the door swing open on a small breeze. It wasn't locked after all.

And here I stand. Once again. Maybe I am back.

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this morning there are dangles of wisteria outside my door.  the redbud trees are full and the sky is solid blue.  the trees have new leaves and the paperwhites have begun to wither. there is a small wind and the day begins warm.  spring will be quick, and then gone.  baseball is just around the corner.  i have the tv on, sound off, as usual, and i am missing katie.  the house is a bigger mess, the kitchen painted and repainted, the perfect color just out of my reach. i may re-tile the floor black and go back to white walls.  i am unsure.  in the meantime, the walls are mostly painted.  i admit, however, that i am quite enchanted with the last white corner behind the refrigerator, and am giving serious thought to letting it stay; the white against the pale blue feels like the sky. it feels like infinity.

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i know i left them around here somewhere . . .

squirrel.

drab leaves.

hidden pecans.

december begins. 

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advent day 1: gray

sleepy and soft and home sweet home.

katie's stairs.

(they will always be katie's stairs.)
the cat rubs hellos and i-miss-yous when she passes by.

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the season begins with silence.
late morning, gray november sky.  teases of sunlight.
wind and leaves, a closed door.

i am full of dreams when i sleep and when i wake. 

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summer autumn

wednesday 's roses.

the shop around the corner.

The step from August to autumn is a slow one around here. September's honeysuckle becomes October's honeysuckle and sprawls just the same along the bridge and the sides of the creek; the trees are still green and leaves fall only because there are moments of wind and rain. Never mind what the calendar says, seasons are births that come in their own time. Spring pushes against winter's envelope, tearing small holes that let blossoms fly through, but winter pushes back, always, always. Summer is always early, spring exhausted and willing to give way, autumn's birth gentle, gentle, a late baby here in Texas, warm long past the time we expect. Winter arrives with a surprise, with a fast drive through a cold night.

but today is autumn, and the temperature cools and warms and cools again - i wear thin sweaters under changing sunshine, and let my toes go bare and chilly in the mornings. they will be warm by afternoon.  a continuation, a movement.  the season of pumpkins and roses. the dragonflies have disappeared and the cat's breakfast was a butterfly.  i was too slow to stop her.

the days and stars turn.

i was once a scorpio, but some say now a libra.

i stay silent and laugh to myself.

continuations, changes. 

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the shop around the corner?

La Tee Da.

it doesn't get much better.

suddenly

The temperature has at last climbed into summer. The heat of the days welcome the crepe myrtle trees, suddenly fat with blossoms - white, pink, purple - hiding the last open spaces of winter, the spaces spring's watercolors couldn't cover. The red dragonflies return, also the orange daylilies, and the sweet willingness to do absolutely nothing settles over us, summer laziness relaxing bones and minds and hearts. The evenings overflow with muggy breezes and mosquitoes, and summer nights bring the cicadas' songs. The cat winds her way to the third floor balcony, summer sprawling dark and hot around the house, sliding up the stairs with her. I read to avoid thinking about things. All fiction and kisses and mexican hot chocolate.

a memory: 
once upon a time there was the way the sun fell through my mother's windows, puddling on the back of the couch of my young childhood.  i would sit backwards, books settled into that light, and get lost in their stories.  i still see the little ballerina in my memories, pink and white tutus glowing across the big pages, dust motes dancing - summer memories if the color of the remembered light is to be believed. late afternoon.

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from then to now and back again

one night a long while back. winter.  reading.  kindle.

I can't remember the book.  I think it's one I'd borrowed from my local library, but possibly not.  I didn't highlight this quote, just enlarged the words and took the picture and kept reading.  I think it's maybe from the Fire and Thorn series, but I'm unsure, and I apologize to the author of whatever book it was.  It was just something I liked.

I liked the idea of all those secret tunnels.  Hidden pathways.  And though I knew at the time what here was and what there was, I like, all these months later, not knowing.  I like here being anything and there being maybe everything.  Anywhere.

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there is no rain today.  there is sunshine outside and inside, on the television, theoden has become the king we always knew he was.  i am writing, just writing, no sentences, no stories, just a list of things i see:

gray velvet

the blue green of my mother's table

the light brown of cardboard

silver

black moths

white ceiling

one granny smith apple

digging a secret tunnel from words to painting, i think.  i have been sketching.  making lists. watching the wind.  small time journaling.

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collecting moments.

january 31: i bought beer, lemons and bagels at the store, only there because katie mentioned my fridge was empty, unless you counted the cokes and pickled okra.  i do, and they were supper more than once last week, but she was right, and we headed out.  we talked about the perfume of coffee, and never mind that i'm not a coffee drinker, i wanted to buy a bag of beans just so i could smell them in the mornings.  i didn't.

may 1: sunday morning.  may.  the churchbells are ringing it in, accompanied by a woodpecker on some tree somewhere out there in the chilly sunshine.  april was poets and rain and tornadoes and stuff i can't talk about.  i paint walls to the sound of baseball games and movies on the television, breathing out the thoughts that scare me, breathing in the brushstrokes and nothingness.  with every flood warning, i toss things out; the house empties bit by bit.  i think in images i've yet to paint, and read instead of walk.

there is a cardinal nest in the cherry laurel tree, the mama cardinal's tail feathers still against the storms.  a skill i envy.

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