It’s not a sadness I get. These new days of compounding dark and fog and ice drive me into daydreams. I can make my own heat and light.  It’s just that the straight path I set in front of myself dissolves, leaving me to wander through the days.  If I have work to do, it best be before noon. If I have anything to do, it best be written on the wall, in red ink. It’s just the way I swoop in woozy loops, and can’t seem to spin myself straight.  Every movement is a fight with my balance.

The wasp is just looking for the moon. The hum of his wings doesn’t bug me much. It’s always a surprise, these insects rising from the wood, once everything has frozen over.  You don’t expect them to survive, such delicate winged things that they are, but they do.

One January, I was washing my face- getting ready for a party, and this giant June Bug shot right out of the drain and hit me in the nose. It’s one of those experiences you wonder about for awhile. What could it mean in the scheme of things.  The symbol of it. The significance.  Or then, once when I was five, the Christmas my father died, I fell ill with the worst Strep.  My grandmother brought home a netted bag of grapefruit, and nestled in the crease was the most beautiful Swallow-Tail butterfly I had ever seen.  Right there, in the roughest of winter, she spread her wings, landed on my hair.

I’ve thought about that one too. The timing of things with wings is an uncanny thing.  I kept her in a jar. Kept celery leaves soaked in sugar water.  She stayed with me a long while. When we went back home to the island, I set her jar on the table. It wasn’t long before the cat knocked it down, set her free in a shatter.

There’s probably no meaning in any of it, except the obvious. Things survive better than we’d give them credit for.  Things with wings always rise against the cold.

They always do, and so do I. 

I love you ridiculous people. I really do. Thank you for all the Birthday wishes. Especially Distractedbyzombies, Bricker and Nograysunflowers for making a big silly fuss. You make my day. Like ten times over. Heh. Anyway I have bundles of work to do, plus Nanowrimo to get ahead on before I head out for the weekend, so pretend this isn't a rerun. ; ) Thanks again. I love you bunches.

    
 

At the China Buffet, where we ended up crashing for dinner, because my daughter likes the goldfish there- likes the way their cheeks puff out in bright paper globes, which she says means they’re happy, I got to thinking about life and death and time and space.  Or rather, I got to thinking about old Pearl and Ernie in the next booth over.

Ernie is deaf now.  Pearl just nags louder. With the horn and tube device Ernie has plugged in, so he can hang on Pearl’s words, there is no hiding this. Each time she uses it, her voice cracks over the usual din.  George always liked that soup, she says gesturing to Ernie’s bowl.  When Ernie stares blankly, she says again, George, my husband- He liked that soup.  Wonton Soup. I  never liked it. 

Ernie, thinks on this for a minute. I hope to myself this is not a first date, some volley for the great twitterpation of hope. Ernie looks at his bowl, looks at Pearl, says, It’s good soup.

Well, you should chew on your left side, she says.  

Round and round they go. Where they stop, no one knows. I sit and pull apart a crab Rangoon.  Birthdays do this to me.  Start to unravel the coil.

It’s not that I fear getting old.  From here, I see it is beautiful, bitter sweet.

It’s just, consider all the years we might walk this earth. Or consider the years, we might not.

Consider how our bones will grow weak before we are through with them, or consider how we might find ourselves sitting in a half-rate buffet, with someone who did not know what we were, when we were fierce enough to run like the wind or lay down in sweet alfalfa fields, in the afternoon heat.

Though, it isn’t that, either.

 It’s just, consider all of the days laid out in front of us. We don’t know any of them. Not one.  It’s a tough river to fathom, all that uncertainty.

A year ago, tonight, my daughter woke me up in the blue-black cold. I was tired then. Cross.  But I remember this well; I held her to the window- tried to soothe her night cry. My neighbor was already out working with his cows. The first snow was gathering in the sky, but it was just clear enough to make out Venus, shining as bright as anything.  It took my breath away.  I’ve tried to keep this with me.  The way the most beautiful of things will rise up, least expected.

So, I consider this too.  The way planets make themselves known, or how we wander our own small planet, finding each other in all the places we never looked. The way kisses rise, tangible from day dreams or the way a seed sprouts in water, unfurls in delicate green light.

Consider the way Pearl cracks open her fortune cookie. The Truth is a flash of lightening, she announces in Ernie’s megaphone.  Ernie looks confused for a moment; they both laugh. Well, who knew, he says.  And I watch then, the way they shake their heads. Pearl wraps a piece of left-over meat in her napkin- for Beasley, she whispers in the mega-phone. She helps Ernie with his coat, his walker. And the two of them shuffle to the counter, where Ernie pays the tab.

There are days I can’t help but love this.

 And there are days I can’t help but be afraid.

But I dig this mortal coil. I dig it with all my little heart.

(12. Create something in which a lobster is a symbolic centerpiece. - mode of creation open)

 In his sixty-one years on this planet, Hank Barnes Hatch, the second, had never had even one taste of lobster.  He wasn’t much for seafood, really, but there in the middle of Walmart where the floor gleamed so brightly the lights suspended from the beams above reflected in perfect circles, save for the spot where that kid just pissed his pants while his mother picked through the rump-roasts, Hank figured it was the principle of the matter.  He brought his eyes level with the tank, where the gray-green crustaceous beasts lolled lethargically with their claws clipped with large rubber bands.  

He had come close to eating lobster, once. Darla was set to make some sort of bisque, whatever that was. Wasn’t long after that, when he shot her.  Whatever Hank Barnes Hatch, the second was going to make with that lobster, he was certain as hell it would not be bisque.  People said they were good with butter.  He could do that.

He watched the lobsters trudge, their shells scraping against one another. Their bound claws stirred up clouds of their own mess. It was a sorry thing, really. Their eyes were hard to make out, but they were there, dull and beady.  Hank watched as they his own gaze.  How did he look to the lobster? He wasn’t sure how he could pick one from the masses.

The man behind the counter could sense his apprehension, Hank was sure. The man was certain and quick in his white apron.  “ They’re as easy as anything to cook,” he boomed.  “ How about this one? “

Hank found himself nodding. The one the man had picked, really looked like all the others. He found himself peering into the tank to see if the rest had noticed the lobster’s departure. The man was forming a knot at the top of the lobster bag. “ Now I know people always tell you the lobsters scream, but it’s only…”

Hank held up his hand and took the bag with his other. “ No need,” he smiled, “No need.”

(28. Create something which answers the question: When the town drunk dies, who should be the first to buy a round?)

“ What’s with the lobster? You don’t even have a kitchen in this place.” Jim made his way around the bar to peer into the tank.  “Jesus, they’re ugly, too.”

“Don’t think I didn’t just see you pocket that bottle.”  Hank said, rubbing his temples. He watched his brother shrug and flip a few quarters into the juke box.

“ It’s going to bother your customers. Look at it, it’s ugly.”

“No uglier than my mug and that never stopped you from sitting yourself down by ten a.m.” Hank could not find the edges to how his brother was getting under his skin. Normally Jim’s antics rolled off him like rain.

“ I used to come for the atmosphere.” 

“You come here because Gus has been hiding your booze.  I know, he told me.”  Hank hated talking about his brother’s problem.  All good bartenders did. He, himself, had stopped drinking long ago, but he knew people had their reasons. Jim had plenty of reasons, and they began long before Jimmy Jr. went missing.

“ Look at that thing,” Jim growled . “ It took a shit. Right here. People come in for breakfast and that things going to shit for them. You’re better off with the live music, I’ve been telling you about.”

“People don’t come in here for breakfast, Jim. There’s no kitchen. “

“I’m just saying. “

“Just shut up about the lobster. That lobster is a saint, okay. A goddammed patron saint.”

“ Of what?”

“Us all, Jim.” Hank busied himself counting change in the register. He was done talking.  He hummed along to the jukebox.

“ How many letters did you write him, anyway?”

“What?” Hank asked.

“Johnny Cash. When you were in the pen, how many letters did you write him?”

“ I wanted him to come play, like he did at Fulsom. I’ve told you that.” Hank shrugged.

“How many?”

“What’s it your business, Jim? Take the bottle. What do I care?”

“How many?”

“Every day. I wrote him every day.”

“And he never came.”

“That’s because… Forget it, James.” Hank didn’t need to explain anything. Every day he wrote those letters and gave them to the guard to send. He’d never seen anything like that guard’s smile the day Hank was handed his stuff. All one thousand-eight hundred and twenty-six unsent letters in a bag. “ If Johnny Cash had ever read one of those letters, he would have came, alright?”

“ Yeah sure he would.” Jim was quiet for a moment. “You know who would show up? These guys I met down at the VFW. Horn players. They’re great. You should book them.”

“ You should hang out at the VFW more often.” Hank shook his head. “We don’t do music.”

“ You didn’t do music. Before.” Jim smiled. “ I don’t know what you’d do without me.  What are you going to do when I die?”

“ I’m gonna buy a round on the house, Jim.” Hank smiled back. “It will be the first time in years I can afford it.”

(20. Write something which incorporates the following sentence: The four brothers, minus the brother lost to the war, played their horns late into the night.)

They called themselves the Holloway Quartet, though by the looks of them, Hank only counted three bodies.

“You know a quartet is four, right?” Hank asked the brother they called Lenny.

“Our other brother died in the war. Korea.”

Hank shook his head. “Oh. I’m sorry  to hear that.”  It seemed a long time to hold someone’s place, but brothers, as far as Hank could tell, were brothers.  His own brother was dozing at the corner of the bar. Hank knew he had a slightly fuller house than usual. Outside of Ned Miller being a little put out that Hank had moved the poker table to the back to make room for the quartet minus one, everyone seemed happy.  It hadn’t been a bad idea.  When the music started, it was like nothing Hank had ever heard. His brother was right. The men could blow. Long soulful notes played against each other.  Hank did his best not to notice old men,  the one accustomed to poker and long arguments had tears streaming down their faces.  Hank felt good.

He should have known trouble had been about to walk in.

She was as beautiful as ever. “Don’t shoot!” she laughed raising her arms in the air.

“That’s still not funny.”

“That’s always been funny, babe. Give me a gin and tonic, will you.”  

Hank smirked. He couldn’t help it. He busied himself making the drink.  “ What are you doing here, Darla?”

“Felt like punishing you.” She smiled.

“I’ve done my time. “

“You did your time for tax evasion.  You ain’t ever done time for me. Come on.”  She took his hand and led him round the bar. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She smelled good. Like chokecherries being made into syrup. That’s how she always made him crazy. Made him dance. He never knew when or for how long or if he’d ever see her again.

She was here tonight.  So he wrapped her in his arms and danced as the  four brothers, minus the brother lost to the war, played their horns late into the night.