life, non-fiction, personal writing

her smile

August 25, 2019

I was busy with myself, getting settled. Thinking about this and that. I don’t really like the hand-shaking. Seems unnecessary, but it’s what you do. So I turned to the left. To a young girl, around ten. A tender age. And a face looking up to me with sweetness and a ready smile. Then the mom. Like her daughter, a smile full of joy. A smile that went all the way to her eyes and to the far reaches of her face. Yes, some faces wear a smile end to end, and that was hers. No averted eyes, no reticence. A full smile, eyeball to eyeball. And her face was radiant, beautiful in the most natural way. She wore a black wrap on her head.

I turned back to myself. Who knows what I was thinking.

Time passed and it was time for our row to get up. The father, dark hair, maybe in his 40s. The girl. And then the mother, using a cane. Her pants, khaki slacks, the kind with a gathered waist, were easily three sizes too big. Like she’d lost 30 or 40 pounds. She didn’t look strong, as if walking was a struggle. There are times in life when reality smacks you in a flash, straight to your core. I don’t know what we’re supposed to feel, I’m not sure I could describe what I did feel. It felt numbing, and stunning, overwhelming, sad, desperate.

We made our way back. I think her face wasn’t smiling anymore. But it was beautiful in the most natural way.

green, life, personal writing, photo, rural, writing

outside the window

Inside, confined, my seat belt tugging. Cool air moving, touching my face. I turn to the right, to the view outside. A wooden fence that went on forever and lush green grass clover countryside.

A light misty rain.

And a fast moving glimpse of today.

[I wasn’t driving, just aimed and clicked.]

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etikser

life, personal writing, photo, photography, poem, prose, summer, writing

morning coffee on the back porch

your bothered sigh 
another day

a squeak 
a bang

sliding doors

nearby voices fading far
muffled jumble
meaningless words

engines and brakes 
thumps and car doors
invisible airplane overhead purr

a singular 
dispirited 
gnarling bark 

hums
buzz
someone’s busy outdoor chores

then

quiet
nothing
but wind and birds and bugs silence

til

a swishing  swirl
swiftly spinning  
bicycle wheels

one more sip, your final gulp
sun up sounds
summer’s day waking up

nature, personal writing, photo, prose, writing

day dreaming

So picture this….

Button down shirt, white jeans, bare feet. Surrounded by trees, the sound of birds and trickling water. Looking into Patrick Swayze’s eyes. His voice explaining how he got into dancing. 

He motions to you. Motions for you to join him. Out there, on the limb, over the creek. You think. No…. No…. No way…

Next thing you know, he pulls you up into in his arms. 

Perfect posture, your chin up, elbows raised, toes clinging to the scratchy bark. And then…you’re both smiling. Giggling. Doing goofy, silly, 60’s style dance moves. Forward and then backward. Along that log, over the creek.

baseball, green, memories, personal writing, photo, prose, summer

batta, batta, batta

You stand at the rail and see lots of open field. Grass and dirt and weeds and clover, all the way to the outfield, and the fence.

Then, you hear it, the crack of the bat. Somebody got a hit. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s the shrill whistle of metal.

Right in front of you, a big clay area, the baseball diamond, a pitcher’s mound, and those weird pillows to mark bases. Those bags must have been around since Babe Ruth.

But we’re here in the dugout, and there’s the old dirty bench. How many butts sat on this bench? It’s where you wait your turn to bat, or go out in the field.

So you sit, swing your feet, and take up the chant. It helps your teammates hit better, I guess. Maybe it keeps you from getting in trouble with other fun stuff, like tossing water around, or telling stupid jokes. Saying words like fart, that make your friends laugh. Could be chanting is supposed to help you forget you need to go to the bathroom.

You punch your glove for awhile, play with the strings. It kinda smells. Pretend you’re catching a fly, then a grounder. Nothing feels like a baseball, does it? Smooth, dirty, matte, hard.

It’s all part of the game.

What?

Gotta go. They’re handing me a helmet. What inning did you say it is?

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etikser