Written with my Thursday night group with the prompts: notice what you notice, wait I said, green and blue tapestry, the only rule is there are no rules, I am from, agreement, cat, have you ever lost a shoe, cinnamon, give, how old was I, rushed back to aloneness
I am from a medium sized city sandwiched between a big mountain range and a small mountain range. From the air my city looks like a blue and green tapestry, sitting amidst green fields and forest, lakes, rivers, and streams. It’s a pretty place, filled with complacent people, rushing here and there, back to their aloneness.
But wait, I said to myself, I want to live in a city that looks like a beaded purse, pulsing and laughing and shimmering with neon lights, theaters, dance clubs and restaurants that serve nothing but cheesecake and rum. My only rule was that there would be no rules, which is a fine attitude when you’re young. How old was I then? I don’t remember, but I do remember losing first one shoe, and then the other, tramping over the sidewalk barefoot and bare headed, the pavement hot, then cold, then prickly with pebbles and glass.
I was befriended by a cat, a tabby that called herself Cinnamon. We came to an agreement. She would warm my bed if I’d find us both shelter. So I did it for her. Left the ski resorts and the beach towns and the big sparkly avenues, and came home to the valley, where I could get a job picking peaches and making pies.
The say my brain is addled now, too many party pills, too many syrupy drinks with little paper parasols. It’s true. I’m different. I’ve learned to be still.
I notice what I notice. I listen and I wait.
Photo by Joey Kyber on Unsplash
