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Smushed Purple Berries that leave Pink Streaks.

There was an urgency that came this morning. An urgency for life. Not sure what to do with this, we went to the Christmas Tree lot. Seventy-five degrees and sunny we dress in our pseudo winter clothes and drive down to Home Depot. We use the economy as an excuse not to shop at the privately owned one down the street where we would pay twice as much. We were quiet on the way down. We were inside our own heads, digging up remedies and creating our own solutions to our various perspectives.

We drove into the large, open parking lot. Orange aprons surrounded us. We chose the first tree we looked at. We all agreed that it was because we couldn’t get any better, but our brains were filled with other things. The urgency persisted as I carried 6 poinsettia plants close to my denim jacket covered chest. The rich red contrasting with the worn blue. We bought the Poinsettias for the boxes outside our front windows. We bought the Christmas tree for the corner of our living room.

My denim covered arm reached out to the roof of the car to keep in touch with the tree. My four finger tips would urge the tree to stay where it was as we drove home.

Dinner was early that evening at my grandmothers house. We left our new firry tree lying on its side in the living room. The stand had broken in between our annual holiday cheer. Dinner was colorful roasted vegetables and barbequed chicken breast. Light and juicy. We talked.

The urgency persisted the next morning, not being fulfilled by the conversation the night before. Ideas were still floating in my brain. Questions had been unanswered. I called him. I considered it brave. I considered it proactive. Texting gives the freedom to leave questions unanswered. To simply disappear. A phone call is not so forgiving.   If the person answers.



The next morning I went to see the 1045 showing of a movie. It compared our emotions to the Aroura Borealis. It made me feel beautiful. I thought about my brain swirling in yellows and greens and pinks and blues. It began and ended with tears in my eyes. I got into my dirty car and drove. There are smushed purple berries on the hood from the rain. When they finally roll away, they leave pink streaks. The streaks remind me of things that last. I took a short cut, winding around the curves of The Hill. The car in front of me was a 1940s Chevy Street Rod. The man wore a trendy hat. Out the windshield of his antique, stood the glistening sky scrapers of the distant downtown.   He dialed his IPhone and spoke to his lover. I wanted to capture this moment. He was heading towards the city where anything was possible and where he was making his artistic dream a reality in a basement apartment. Giving him plenty of room to work his paint across canvases or pin his character inspirations on the wall. Plenty of room to show how much he loved her. Plenty of room.

I passed the man with the basement apartment and a 1940s Chevy and saw a red and white for sale sign on the side of the car. He continued straight as I turned right, leering into his passenger window. He is not what I expected with wrinkles and a mustache. I should have allowed my imagination to take me away


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