One of them weeks when it comes at you from all directions and none of it nice.
Baby birds as big as their papas chirp at the feeder to be mouth-to-mouth fed. Same size they are, but somehow rounder and fluffy with softer-blent colors, a bit raggedy-edged and of course, loud.
Four rows away, Willie, healthy and happy and best voice in years. His son Lucas, adorable, a beautiful young man sings hard rock and the crowd isn’t happy. Rudely calling for Willie, the poor boy and his band sadly play on and good papa Willie walks on and plays too. Me and my mug conflict with our plans to wait or to go but I run to the car in the rain. Mad at the crowd for their ignorance. Mad at myself for my fear.
Neighbor returning a favor I ask them so seldom: please, may I come use your computer and printer rather than take the time now to rewire and reinstall software–I only need one single copy off the damn flex-spending site? She did ask what happened but really doesn’t care to listen, interrupts me to ask if I’ll eyeball a picture for hanging it right and shuts all the Windows before I can even log off and then whoosh, I’m sent out the door.
Grumpy at liberals who certainly aren’t. Politically incorrectly calling religion believers simply stupid. First the right to bear arms, then freedom of speech, and now taking back freedom of faith. Noticed someplace wants to personalize giving; remove anonymity and give hand to hand. I laugh to myself since it’s not what the doers want to do: to see, to touch and be touched by the donees and God forbid, let them know where they live?
Coming across a new old issue; how hard would it have been to give a single sentence of credit where due?
And lobsters are hiding and holding out for big bucks. The seventeenth year of our marriage will not see the traditional pet lobster this year.
Cold dreary day grows the mold of mean thoughts. Then I step out and see the Sweet William and smile.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology