Soft & Sweet

[Westerly_2]

Thus is the spot to post our more sensitive sentiments - prose or poetry - and heave a heavy sigh or two.

[Westerly_2]

Anniversary

 

            Mark chose the law offices of Shapiro, Shapiro & Shapiro because it was close to the parking lot he used when fishing the wide and shallow Chinabago River that ran parallel to Main Street. He had called the day before to nail down an hour. They had their marriage licenses by then, the waiting period over .It was official that neither had VD, and their blood pressures were really great too.

            “You have the blood pressure of a 20-year-old,”the doctor had joked, which was supposed to be funny because Mark was all of 22, and Marcia 21.

            Mark parked the shuddering Dodge, and he and Marcia got out, joining hands with nervous smiles. His folks lived states away, and hers she was running away from, so this was not a well-planned affair. He had found a third-floor walk-up and had the promise of a job. And she had her pink bulletin board, her favorite record albums and boxes of her best clothes in his trunk.

            Mark was wearing a thinned-out tweed jacket and creased slacks, and Marcia wore a loose cotton dress in a brown, gold, white and green leafy print tied with a soft belt. It was windy in the alley that  linked the parking lot to the street, and a piece of grit got blown into mark’s eye which bothered him for days after, but he would have given both eyes for Marcia then. She would remember that day much the same way as he a half-century later, but she never knew how that dirt in the eye had pained him so much for so long.

            Once inside, they were surprised when they were expected to provide at least one witness to the nuptials.

            “You brought no one?” the JP asked.

            They stared at each other with raised eyebrows.

            Sol Shapiro shrugged and offered up his secretary, Ornesta Ogilvy to do the honors, and I have to say that life after that was never as fortuitously alliterative or as smoothly matched as it was then. Nor was the path any free-er of grit. But what is?

           

[Bmichael]

Flag! "fortuitously alliterative".

[Bmichael]

I guess that’s that.

Kind of expected it to turn out this way from day one, but still…

Maybe if it wasn’t a holiday, or quite so cold.

But Christmas Eve?

Is there supposed to be some kind of message or lesson from this?

Probably not, but isn’t it like us to try and attach deep meaning to stuff like this.

You probably got run over. No wait, I take that back – you’re too smart…and careful.

I know… it was the turkey vultures. They swooped down fast. You never saw it coming. Except there aren’t any this year.

Anyway, what do I care?

Just tried to help you get along – you surely needed it.

You were young, small, weak, and undernourished – it was that damned chipmunk diet. I noticed the missing ear tip…and was glad you stood your ground. We all have to do that.

So what happened?

Were you sick? Didn’t seem like it. The day before, you were good. Eyes bright and clear, high stepping, chattin’ all the way down the path – as usual.

So, 480 cans of Little Friskies later, you’re gone.  

What do I care?

Was there somebody else? Hope so.

Maybe you made a choice. Hope so.

Thought it would be like this.

Cars, vultures, and disease be damned – it was none of that.

Deep down, I know you went to Westerly’s. I’ve heard she takes in hardship cases sometimes. Just watch out for the puppy.

I’m ok with it, except for one thing - I’ll never do it again.

Until the next time.

 

 

 

[Westerly_2]

The garage door separates the littlest hardship case from westerly's violent allergies,and from the cock-of-the-walk 3 pound Chihuahua with illusions of grandeur- who is bad enough, even without her sister the demented Min Pin who has been known to run down a moving rat in a single bound. *Sigh* I don't know what she wants with us. We're toxic to Friskies-eaters, but some just crave that kind of challenge.

[Bmichael]

So here it is – four months later and I’m still wondering what happened.

Always have had over active daddy genes – can’t help it.

Had some bad storms recently and I automatically wondered if you’re ok – like if you’re smart enough to come in out of the rain – just like always.

I talked myself into believing that you found a real home, probably in the subdivision on the other  side of the woods where some little girl with freckles and red hair tricked you into her garage on Christmas Eve and slammed the door shut.

I like that story but I knew it wasn’t true because you came to me in a dream one night. All my dead animals do that – Prince did it (several times)…so did Sam and the others , appearing in a woodsy  scene like a Thomas KinKade painting, just for a few seconds – letting me know.

I watched one day as another stray made its way down the path, came upon your house (Chateau  du KitKat) and moved in – that’s ok – but the kitchen is closed this time. Anyway, the new tenant didn’t look like it was missing too many meals.

I spend a lot of time looking out the window – there’s lots to see in the woods. Birds, squirrels, hawks, raccoons, but never any people. That’s because it’s dense and thick with trees and undergrowth, full of deep ravines that quickly fill with fast water after a rain and the path only extends a little way until the drop off. Perfect though, for critters like you.

Two weeks ago I was startled to see a black cat making its way  carefully through the brush. At first I thought…nah…and decided it was too big…too long…too tall. Besides, you were, uh…you know…dead. Or at a tea party with l’il Red grudgingly obliging a doll’s bonnet as long as the smoked salmon kept coming.

In a second it was gone as I reminded myself that there was likely more than one black cat in the world – had to be at least two or three billion.

But I kept an eye out just to make sure and never saw it again.

Yesterday afternoon the sun finally came out and I stepped out onto the balcony to try to determine what happened to the furniture  since last fall when something below caught my eye.

A black cat with familiar, bright yellow eyes was staring at me just like the old days.

But it wasn’t you dammit…I know it wasn’t…couldn’t be…because it’s been four months and you’re…well, you know.

Jeez…

 

[Marilyn]

Announcement: I'm baaa-aaack from Eataly. Good to see that everyone's still writing!

[Bmichael]

Hola, Chica!

How was your trip?

[Carol T]

Aw.

[Marilyn]

Grazie! Had a great trip, thanks --- interesting museums, hobnobbing with a zillion new friends (who knew Italy's Labor Day was happening while we were to be there?) Traveled exclusively by train and bus, hit Rome for Stan's birthday, Venice for our first anniversary, Florence for White Night (you can look it up; we had no idea what we were getting into) and Siena for a respite from all the noise and crowds!

Next trip: fishing in Canada. Glub!

[Bmichael]

Cool!

[Bmichael]

The young rabbit pops out of the underbrush and hops, exposed, into the grass everyday at about the same time – looking very much like lunch.

The little guy seems relaxed and playful, and while he appears alert and on guard, he’s not very good at it yet – his back is towards the woods as he enjoys whatever plant he’s found.

From my perch, I can see a lot.

Something is moving through the growth. Branches are moving out of sync along a straight line…a squirrel suddenly races up a tree.

Neither is on each other’s radar yet, but the youngster freezes at the motion of the squirrel, only for a second and returns to the grass.

Survival of the fittest be damned…I throw the water bottle and before it hits the ground, it’s gone.

Fooled me.

 

[Carol T]

I like seeing this critter softie side of you, Bmichael.