99 bottles of beer and a Butterfly, too!

I rolled out of five o'clock traffic, Stones blaring, and scooched into the faded little parking lot. No beer in the fridge and two cigarettes to my name. Stopping on my way home to stock up on a little peace and my everyday addictions. I thought about leaving my sunglasses on. Not to hide my identity, but because I looked so bad. Old. Tired. It happened overnight.

Instead, I followed the construction worker with the beautiful blue bandana on his head through the double doors and smiled as we clinked cooler doors together. He nodded. Five thirty etiquette at the corner store.

I was third in line. Right behind the man with the baseball cap. And the blue eyes.

He turned. We've met here before. In pajamas. I groaned. And laughed. Couldn't look any worse than the first time. He laughed, too, and then inched his way closer to being "next " in line.

He paid for my beer. Kissed me on the cheek and walked out the double doors.

The six people in line behind me and the girl behind the counter watched as he never looked back.

"A carton of Winston Ultra Light 100's, please" I asked as I balanced my Michs on the popsicle cooler. "Your neighbor?" she asks, pointing her head and every squiggly hair on her noggin' towards the door. "Nah".....

A murmer began behind me. And I smiled.

When I walked through the double doors, I smiled at the sunset. Seven people touched by the butterfly. Everyone making up different stories. Talking out loud....

"Her ex" the hippie in the blue bandana grumbled.

"Dude, wanna buy my beer?" the kid behind him asked.....

"I don't think she knows him" Leyla replied.....ringing up the hippie's beer....

And then I was out the door.....I didn't hear the telephone tag that passed through the line, but I smiled even bigger at the sunset.

The man who thinks he doesn't make a difference, doesn't have a clue. Seven people went home with a story. All different. All painted to match their imagination.

And imaginations grow....

Letters from Where We Left Off....

I remember as if it were yesterday, those fateful blue eyes.

Standing in my Sunday pajamas in the cold February wind....I slid the credit card through the "fill her up at the pump" slot. Nothing happened. I turned the card upside down and tried again. Nothing. I imagined the "E" glowing brighter on the dashboard. "Damn"!

I looked once. Both ways. No one else was in the parking lot or at the pumps. I bolted for the double doors. This is a really small town. Please God don't let anyone see me in my pajamas, with my "I've been up all night" face on! I'm not vain, but I had a hangover and it had been a long and sad 36 hours leading up to this moment....this I can't even coast home on hope moment.

Kimbies and Papa and I had spent the day before cleaning out Nadine's house. Selling a lifetime of love at a garage sale to benefit her children. Smiling at strangers while our hearts broke. And then we went out drinking. Big time. We laughed. We cried. We made new best friends. We kissed the nicotine stained Sky. Waved at Nadine up there! Over us, watching. And now it was the morning after.....

And I just wanted to go home.

I didn't see him bop through the side door. Full of himself, and Sunday Spirit. But I felt those eyes, those fateful blue eyes from heaven.....rap,tap,tapping on my new day. And so I turned just in time to catch his smile. His Mick Jagger smile.

And I laughed.

For the first time in forever.

And it wasn't long before I danced. For the first time in forever.

And lived. For the first time in forever.

Endings are sometimes beginnings. Beginnings are sometimes endings.

And sometimes the circle goes on and on and on.....

I should have known if I was going to be late for work this morning, I was going to be really late.

I felt that rap,tap,tapping on my new day....
Just before I saw those fateful blue eyes again.....

Pinnochio and other tell~tale stories

I was fat. A dumpling with cold black hair and an indian nose. I was a girl. Samalama Singleton. And my Father adored me.

He nub~nubbined my head, and pinched my nose, threw me in the air and caught me football style, just before I kissed the ground.

At four, my hair was blonde and he had squeezed my nose so many times, it had almost disappeared....

At ten, I ran face first into a concrete wall, sprinting out from under a Christmas tree....and set that nose straight again....broad and bumped...

And then I was 32. Exhausted. Sacked out on an empty living room floor. Two toddler loves waddling in circles around my head, little feet knotting my hair up in piles of angel speghetti on the Berber carpet. I closed my eyes. "Here we go round the merry go round, the merry go round, the merry go round".......

"Mama!" he said. A three year old's world breaking the rhyme. I opened my eyes just in time to see the bottom of his size four pretend Nike's leap in the air. I closed them right before all 38 pounds of Boy jumped in the air and landed on my face.

Broader and bumped again.

My nose grew and grew and grew.....

When my soldier left for war, I bit my bottom lip . I couldn't let him see me cry. Not out the airplane window. I waved and smiled. Turned. Ran.

I kissed the door head on. Knocked myself out silly.

Six months later, the black eyes faded....and the bump was all but gone. I had the most perfectly straight broken nose anyone had ever seen.

When I tell the story, sometimes people think I'm fibbing.....
But I'm not....
It's broken, always has been.

Only now I can crinkle it.
Wrinkle it.
Screw it up in a magical "I dream of Jeannie" spell....

If you don't believe me, ask Skinny....