Papaya Yahtzee
What if we all just ate papaya and granola and played Yahtzee for an entire day? Rain splashing down on a beautiful, gray, drizzly day. Would we have war then? All the world leaders drinking tea and eating papaya. Maybe some mango. There are cookies, too. No, I don’t think we would.
War would be obsolete. May I pour you another cup of tea, please?
Smidge of Cool
She opens the door to catch the smidge. The smidge between the cool night air, which, in Chico, lasts only a short time, maybe a half hour, maybe an hour, before the pounding heat.
Hunting Guava
She had been to Maui, stayed in a modest place so beautiful that in the morning when her husband slept in, she would walk. Even as close as their little place they were staying, in that very neighborhood, there were guava trees. Those were the only things she ever stole in her life: guavas.
A Box
A box is a poor substitute for a dog. A man. A father. When a person goes into that final box, you never get to see them again, except when they are the stuff of dreams. Or nightmares. My brother’s dog was not my dog, but I loved him anyway. The box with his ashes sits on their mantle. It is a poor substitute.
The box where my father’s corpse lies is a bigger box. He was bigger than my brother’s dog, of course, even though the dog was a big one. His box, too, is a poor substitute. It has been 7 years. Not long enough. Too long.
Carousel
Bowling, always fun, one game not enough, two games half too many.
Feelings, all of them, tears, laughter, heaving sigh sobs of grief when a loved one is lost and you can’t breathe, or so it seems. You continue, somehow. They don’t.
A child giggles, making it all worthwhile. You didn’t know your heart could be so full.
A friendship formed, another lost. A moment in school, when you realize there is more than one way. Songs, bringing more feelings, some you didn’t know existed. You find out you are a lyrics person, or a music person. Both are true. Strawberries, flowers, rocks on a beach. A structure, a bridge, a wall. A barista, a pilot, a line, a circle. We all ride the carousel, until we exit.
