Eureka

 

This here Blog got left behind

It’s one I wrote for you to find

I see you’re here, so just unwind

and if you comment –

Please be kind.

☺☺☺☺

It was an ordinary chair

 

    Looking at it when a stream of sunlight coming through the window struck it, somehow it made it seem more important.

    Occasionally a friend would sit in it and the friend’s personality took over.  The chair wasn’t even noticeable.

    Only once did a salesman sit in it.  He had come to the door selling timeshares.  Not only had I never before heard of a door-to-door timeshare salesman, but no matter what he said, I didn’t believe a word of it.  Neither did the chair.

    We had seen it all, the chair and I.  Now it was being carted away.  Secondhand store owners were hauling it out of my front door, for no other reason than “She” didn’t like it.  …said it didn’t fit in.

    I could see this was going to be an adjustment.  Every time I saw her, I’d think of that chair.  I remember for a long time it was just the two of us.  I knew I had to decide -  did I like her more than I missed the chair. 

    She left me that following Spring for an old high school flame.

    The first time I saw the sunlight come in and hit the carpet where the chair once sat, I went to the junk drawer and searched for the business card of the secondhand store, hoping I wasn’t too late.

 

 

It should be noted...

 

It’s either long afterward

or just a short time later

when I realize what I should have said.

The significance of the issue

corresponds proportionally to the

time span lapsed.

Somewhere threads connect everything

to the length of time it all remains

in your memory.

It should be noted that as we age those threads become frayed, broken and disconnected. 

Sounds of November

 

A pie upon the window ledge

Cake upon your plate

A bet that sure could use a hedge

Grandpa's running late,

Tuning forks go on the left

Spoons are on the right

Kettle drums to hold the soup

Candles that won't light,

Open windows for a breeze

Don't let it slam the door,

Bless you every time you sneeze

It's what we're thankful for.

                            zc

Black & White

 

    It was an 8 X 10 glossy, but in black and white.  The picture was of an old man’s hands.  Worn with labor and aged with frustration.  Just seeing them, one could see a lifetime of harshness.   Now, however, at this moment, they were at rest. Perhaps long overdue.

    The photograph emanated a momentary calmness that the hands had not previously enjoyed.  These were factory hands, controlled by timeclocks and lunch whistles, as were they construction hands, measuring, calculating, erasing errors, questioning, straining to lift.

    Once painful cuts now show up as faded imperfections. Scars of long-ago slips and mishaps no longer hidden beneath band aids blend into the landscape of old age.   Perhaps now, a grandfather’s hands, holding a child's book, turning the pages of someone else’s adventure, in a world of youthful color.

 

B. F. Skinner (like)

 

In an effort to better understand why animals play, I rolled a ball of yarn towards his nose.  Sally immediately announced that it needed to be a kitten and not an alligator, but an alligator was all I had to work with at the time. 

When nothing happened, I naturally assumed the fault was in the yarn.  It was either the wrong color or I had not left enough of a trailing straggle of yarn to simulate a tail.  That, I was sure, was important.

I had heard that crows play.  I know they have the ability to recognize people and remember events, but other than playing with another crow, could I get one to play with me?  This, of course, would call for something other than yarn.  That would be too much like nest building material, even though I have never seen a crow with knitting needles, neither have I seen a person constructing a cardigan using their mouth and feet.

This was turning out to be more difficult than I had first thought.

Out of Sequence

 

The square below is a playground of dirt but the children don’t care, they have known nothing else.   Their playing and arguing sound the same to me, I can never tell the difference.  Their Italian voices rise with the dust and drift off across the courtyard, disappearing over the tile rooftops.  Soon the sun will be setting, and mothers will be calling them home for dinner.

My Montepulciano is half empty.  I fill my glass a bit and set the bottle back down on my old wooden table.  My matchbook has once again slid out from beneath the table leg.  A slight breeze moves the faded, lace curtains that hang on each side of the window and I no longer hear the children below.  I am curious as to why they have stopped playing but not curious enough to walk over and look down at the courtyard.   Am I lazy or too tipsy to trust myself to walk from here to there?

My room is bland.  The only art on the walls is what was already here when I moved in.  I don’t like it at all but have never changed it.  Perhaps I am lazy.  For $510.00 a month you’d expect better artwork.  Still, there are no voices coming from the courtyard.  I must get up and see what is going on.  As I walk towards the window I can see the apartment straight across.  Two people are leaning out and looking down.  Something must have happened, something not good I expect.

I can smell the aroma coming from a different apartment and it’s making me hungry.  Whatever it is smells great.  If only I knew of some way to get myself invited.  Suddenly, one of the ladies across the way let out a scream, followed by a gasp from the other person looking down.   Before I made it to the open window, someone was pounding on my door.  I turned and walked that way to see why someone was knocking so frantically. 

A heavyset man in a suit flashed his badge and as he entered my apartment, asked what I had been up to.  I didn’t understand his question but then again, he didn’t wait for me to answer.  He kept heading towards the window, then leaned out to look down at the courtyard below.  I followed him but then noticed the matchbook on the floor next to the table leg. 

As I stooped to pick it up, I tripped and lunged forward, plowing into the man who was already leaning out.  I couldn’t stop myself and the impact sent him flying.  As I heard him hit the ground, the two women across the way looked up and straight at me.