Herbert? Gus? Paddy?

Diary of a week

Monday, May 6

The dress arrived. The one for wearing to the wedding this month. I put it on, twirled, and walked tip-toe across the floor, then back again in front of the camera on my phone. To capture a film. Because we girls like to ask our girlfriends, our moms, our sisters, This one for the wedding? We want to know, Is the idea in my head good on my body? They reply with a resounding YES! And so it will be this dress, these shoes, these earrings, this clutch. Gracious, I love dressing up.

Tuesday, May 7

Maggie and I found him huddled alone in the middle of the gravel road between those mountains. A downy puff of yellow and brown, he padded as fast as his tiny webbed feet would go - should he run to us or run away from us? He decided both. Then I saw the laceration on his neck. Dear sweet baby. I scooped him up. This one needed rescuing. I cuddled him close. He snuggled in and fell asleep. Miles down the road, down the highway, and into town until I finally handed him to the man at Game & Fish with the big hands and the bigger beard. He’d like to snuggle in your beard, I thought, but I didn’t say. Farewell, little one.

All the way home, I thought of what I would have named the little guy if he could’ve been mine. Herbert? Gus? Paddy?

Wednesday, May 8

The drum of rain, the chop of the chef’s knife through an onion. Beef and beans, together in a pot, with crushed tomatoes, the onion, spices, and salt, for a long simmer that would sink everything together into a rich, thick chili by dinnertime. There’d be buttery, sweet cornbread in a cast iron skillet, too.

Thursday, May 9

Bright yellow ranunculus nod their heads over the rim of the vase in the center of the dining table. Leaned against the vase is a card sealed inside an ivory envelope. In black ink across the front it says, Mom. Every day, I see it there, waiting. Three more days.

Friday, May 10

The crimson-red, specked with tiny green seeds, drops by slices into the dish, exploding the heady scent of strawberry. Cold, thick cream drizzles a stream over top. Sugar shakes and sparkles on the berries, on the cream turning pink. I dip in with my silver spoon and take a bite. Spring did this.

Saturday, May 11

Just begin. How about at the corner, here, where the flower bed is small? It’s doable here. Over there, where the bed is wide and long (or there, where it’s in between)? No, not now. Just here. Thrust the spade in, loosen the soil, pull the weeds, toss them in the barrow. Let the rhythm begin. Let effort and hope collide. By the time you stow the spade and roll the barrow away for the day, you’ll look up and find you’ve done them all.