Don’t Fuss

March 20, 2013


I am in one of those situations where the things I want to talk about involve people that you know. On my mind are names that you would recognize. Dear people, desired people, characters that have meaning.

Today I put on the hat I will wear in Santa Cruz and walked to the store. But this is Portland and so it turned from sunny to dark and released a torrent of hail upon my thin sweater and bare ankles and colorful cotton brim. I flattened against the trunk of a tree and waited. When it cleared and I went on my way I noticed that my tree was the only bared limbed one in the park.

When I got home I changed for the fourth time. Off came the high-waisted pieced jeans, on came the low slung Prison Blues with permanent grass-stained knees and utility pockets. I planted a tree, an apple baby over which I cooed and fussed.


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