Dear Reader,
The fan on the porch is gently moving the chime, causing the smallest of sounds, like the empty swings in a park on a windy day.
The chime is from last year, a keepsake, a comfort, offered.
Some would have put the chime graveside. I wanted it on the porch.
Sometimes when I open a window, my head sets it going.
I’m reminded of an old poem I wrote about another wind chime, now gone.
(The chime, not the poem. That is, I think I rediscovered the poem.)
A new friend wandered by the porch in a hat and said hello.
(The hat on the friend, not the other way around.)
She looks like Scarlett Johansson to me, and I told her so the other day.
I wrote a poem, “Saturday, Crumpled.”
It comes from something I do when Word Raccoon feels overwhelmed with the “shoulds.” I write everything I want to (or should) do on slips of paper and, as I do the tasks, I crumple the slips and throw them away.
Ok, WR rips them up and then crumples them.
Sometimes she does a task in installments, though it means not getting the coveted paper before she’s finished. I’m strict about that. Often she puts away the top rack of the dishwasher first. Later, the bottom. Today the silverware, apparently, must contemplate its existence a little longer in situ.
She has only written the one poem thus far. She could see herself “thussing” more today. WR, that does not even make sense.
She does not care.
Remaining in her stack of tasks:
Put the vacuum cleaner stand together (please let the pieces all be there)
Install the upstairs bathroom outlet cover (two minutes, tops)
Make tomato sandwiches (clearly she went to the farmers market, which was on the list; she also bought candy from her cousin there. Our grandmother used to make the best fudge, but while his is delicious, it’s not how I remember hers, so I’m guessing it’s his own recipe.)
Write more poetry, if it visits.
Listen to the chime and wonder why humans tolerate something that only pleases us at its whim. And yet, when it does sound, it pleases us immensely.
I guess we could make it chime if we set it off deliberately, but that’s not organic enough for us.
WR, you’re being unreasonable! Is it the chime’s fault or the lack of wind? This heat alone could run sound off, I would think.
WR says the result is the same.
I think I may borrow Carl’s catchphrase from Dungeon Crawler Carl, with a twist:
Goddamnit, WR!
Maybe we both need a nap.
Drema