Saturday, November 19, 2016

Saturday Musings, 19 November 2016

Good morning,

Here and there the piles of clutter threaten to grow and overwhelm me again.  I sit in a flannel nightgown listening to a distant roar that could be a trash truck except for the day of the week.  The neighborhood resists awakening.  Only my dog barks.  A quieter hum speaks from the basement, of winter nights and the fireplace which must be cleaned if I plan to use it.  It has sat idle for the last few years.  Perhaps finally I will set a match to crumpled paper and kindling again to let its flame roar high.

Now I see the pale glow of sunlight on a brick wall across the street, dappled and daring against the shadows.  A line of stairs marches to the cracked sidewalk on which a cat stalks something in the leaves.  From my window, I watch it all, even the ghosts darting across my yard with their makeshift capes flying from their small shoulders.   A slender woman led by her blue-grey border collie moves noiselessly beyond the pane in front of which I stand.  I see her nearly every day -- narrow frame, razored hair, round black eyeglasses.  She  holds her eyes forward.  She does not know that I am watching; or if she knows, she pays no heed.  We learn this way of walking in our solitary world.

Thanksgivings of my past crowd round, begging to be told.  Cornish hens in a fire-fed pot-belly stove; names pulled from a Christmas-gift hat; chores divided by eight who scurry around the house when the bell rings.  I've talked of them so many times.   Each day of thanks; each turkey; each plate of pumpkin pie.  I shrug them off and keep my vigil.

Now the sun crests the line of houses to the east and sheds a fuller light on the scene outside.  Traffic increases on my little street.  Pale leaves drift through the fragile air, shed from the heavy crown of the maples overhead.  I cross my arms and hold my body motionless.   I stare through the window with its broken sash and sagging shade.  I could not tell you what I think will come. I only know that I still wait.  I still wait.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

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The Missouri Mugwump™

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I've been many things in my life: A child, a daughter, a friend; a wife, a mother, a lawyer and a pet-owner. I've given my best to many things and my worst to a few. I live in Brookside, in an airplane bungalow. I'm an eternal optimist and a sometime-poet. If I ever got a poem published in The New Yorker, I would die a happy woman. I'm a proud supporter of the Arts in Kansas City. I vote Democrat, fly the American flag, cry at Hallmark commercials, and recycle.