The Red Cup...

Sometimes....the clink is so soft,
so quiet,
the ta!dah! of soft red plastic,
cold beer splashing,
spirits smiling....

that you only hear it in remembering....

And then it happens again...
a Spontaneous Celebration...
one arm up in peace and love
stretching to kiss the sky and
one hand
snuggling the splash,
in the very moment
that the sisterhood,
the brotherhood,
the love,
becomes a wave...

That's how we do it down here....

Spooky little night....

I heard it from the living room. Over the dog panting in whispers from the leather chair. Over the air humming, rattling the vents. Over the funny sky, winteresque at 90 degrees, churning outside the windows. The ticking. The tocking. The incessent heartbeat of time. Just before the storm broke loose, I paraded into the kitchen to stare the clock in the face and bellow...."I hear you!"


And then I saw it....

The second hand chirping at seven. Over and over again. The minute hand frozen. Rickety tickety tock. Time stuck in a rut, wearing a groove pattern in the plastic face of yesterday/tomorrow/now. I stood barefooted and stared. Willed the hands to move. Lightening flashed from behind the fiesta ware. Thunder clapped. Rickety tickety tock. The second hand quivered, lingered, shuttered, slammed back into the 7th house. Just beyond midnight.


A friend called and said he had seen a ghost. Felt it. The second hand shimmied.

Every call I took or made was disconnected. My end. Their end. Disconnected.


Spooky little night....
By the time I wake up in the morning, the batteries should finally be dead. Time will have stopped and finally I'll recharge. Set the hands where I want them

and

start all over again....


At the beginning.....


the middle....


or the end....


Wherever the music plays...

I named him Woodstock.....

"He's just a bike" they said. Rolling their eyes. "But a good bike, Ma, a really good bike" she added, reassuring me that it was o.k. to bring him in the house. Ok to clear a room for his comfort and park him like art next to the piano. And then they laughed.

But, he's my responsibility, I thought to myself. I brought him home from the store, picked him out of crowd, with his peeling stickers lazily slapped on at the factory, his decals with air pockets, and his crooked seat. I brought him home and now I have to nurture him. Show him the world. I have to teach him to ride with the wind, to slide into the driveway, racing for homebase like the crowd is roaring. I have to take him where he feels as free as first love or a puppy that just climbed through the gate, knee high in trouble and romping on...and on....and on....

And so, on Sunday, after miles and morning miles of practice, we took off...."Take me to the River and I'll follow you anywhere" I whispered to his backside, clomping him out the kitchen door, and saddling up with lemoned water and a smile....and we rode on and on and on.....

Like Forest Gump running, we just kept going......

And I swear he pedaled half the way. I rode the wooden bridge hands free, blonde hair flying, tickety tickety tack, floorboards swaying...... the water chasing us under the planks, lapping at our shadow....

At Make-out park, we camped long enough to remember, to graze, to watch the faces of strangers watching us grow....

to stare into the rheumy face of the river and throw kisses at everything hidden under its leather colored skin.....

to smile at the Sun, freckle faced, and playing hide and go seek with the trees,

to climb over the "Do not cross the fence" sign

and snuggle into Peace Tree,

two fingers rising.....

long enough

to know

it was OK to turn around and go back home.

Ok to fly like the dickens down that driveway.....

crunching gravel all the way.....