Should have worn the clogs; they’d have made me taller, yes, but more, they’d have added needed weight on this wondrous windy day that makes the flags sing in patriotic glory of democracy. The tribe has spoken, so to speak, for better or worse, and the day just passes via wind the news across the countryside.
And jacket; what made me think a blouse and sweater (large knit cable full of holes) would keep the wind from battering the body, though the mind is open to the thoughts and sounds and all the rest it brings. Yet natural as the procrastinating nature of the soul to find the bags of hand-me-downs from latest niece’s visit home, still soundly stashed as winter weight within the way-back of my car.
Aha, the plaid flannel shirts are there–they know me well–though some are buttoned wrongly for a girl. It doesn’t matter though, I’ve worn those of my nephews, husband, brother-in-law, old boyfriends (saved for just the scent that lingers to refresh the mind), and then of late, my father’s clothes as well.
I pull out denim shirt that matches closely to my jeans, put it on and face the wind with straight faced, clear-eyed vision. And, of course, with warmth.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology