With her wide eyes poking out from within the tree’s bent branches, she tells us that she is in charge and that we must celebrate the holidays her way with sparkly objects mistaken for cat toys scattered about the house. She knows that we will fix the tree once more and pet her again. In the back of my mind, I consider the engineering needed to mount the Christmas tree to the ceiling.
I refuse to use the grey mug sitting in the corner of the room. I glance over in its direction and watch it staring at me…
You cannot avoid the bright greens from the various herbs and spices sprouting in medium-sized round pots and planters. And when you brush up against the springy shrubs adorning the sides surrounding the outdoor space your noise is gifted with a smell of fresh basil and parsley that lingers long enough to encourage a small grin from your mouth.
People say that high school is one of the greatest times of your life. You learn to drive, meet new people, and become an adult by the end of it all. However, this time is over in an instant.
For many members of the Deaf community, the event was an opportunity to catch up with old friends, immerse themselves in a welcoming Deaf-friendly environment full of signing people, and a chance to just have fun without having to worry about whether they would be excluded from anything or not have access to information.
It was part of my weekly routine. I would walk into the loud local coffee shop downtown and write for an hour or so after work before going home. It was the only way I would be sure that I got some writing in, and the only other opportunity where I could relax while eavesdropping on people.
The lingering moisture that gathered in the air has always done that to me. Perhaps a bit of the past was carefully mixed in along with the misty fog too.
It’s an encouraging starting point, a way to help you organize, and an inspiring task crafted to lure the average writer out to do what they love best—write.
Two thousand and two miles and seven states in twenty-nine hours. My sister and I drove that distance in a small Hyundai Sonata from Tennessee to California. We celebrated as he passed state lines, posed in front of state signs, and nearly killed each other in the last eight hours before we made it to California.
You tell me that where you’re from
a pitcher full of this on a porch
was all anyone needed.
It was a link to the past,
a connection to the future,
and it quenched
wandering mid-day thoughts.