Pixies for peace

His little fingers open and close, the tissue paper soft wings of a newborn butterfly resting for just a moment, on the knotty limbs of an oak tree. He traces my veins and wrinkles, smiles, and holds on tight. Sighs and closes his eyes. For just a moment, I close mine, too. And I pray I'll live long enough, laugh often enough, to become a hundred year old pixie in his memories.



I'm standing at the ocean wall. And I feel her. Rising up in my heart. Hear her. See her. I spin around and know they feel her, too. Nana. She's at the bar playing Cahoot's with strangers. She's in patent leather knee high boots dancing with her new best friends. She has little lady fingernail shells stuffed in her yellow pocketbook. Magic potions in her carpetbag. She tossles my hair, runs her finger down my sunburnt nose, and throws her head back. Laughs and shoos me off...."Have fun, be free, little ones..."



Her face is scribbled. A thousand wrinkles swimming in every direction. Blonde hair piled on her head in banana curls. She's beautiful. The band drags their cords and amps, speakers, guitars, drums across the deck. "Testing one, two, three, testing".....and then she's gone. We're on our own. The man across the bar, with the Bon Jovi hair, rises and walks toward us. Giant fuscia hibiscus blooms in his hands. "For the flower children" he smiles....



And I look up at the sky and thank her.