Adriana.K.Maxwell
The story is beginning. The grandkids gather round. The granddaughter leans her head back onto grandma's knees. This is not a new story. This, they have heard all their lives, that is why they love it. The echo of when their parents were children, when they were naughty, too. Sticking pins in a leather chair just to hear the sounds of the holes with an angelic face to get pass everyone but their parents. To know that big people were little, too. "Just like us" the story says, weaving into their bones, connecting them to all who came before. To a time without electricity, when grandpa was a little boy hiding stolen baker's chocolate in his mouth
Echo through the night, Liam's voice bounces off melting snow, pinecones and corncobs on a rusty lid campfire as we squat in our little backyard home.
The gust of wind slammed the door shut. He looked at her, quiet. It was the thing that annoyed her about him. She was a storm, lightening, and he slipped away like water through her fingers. Too soft, too quiet. She wanted to fight, wanted to yell, wanted blood, wanted victory, needed it but how do you argue with someone who just bows his head?
Woven through different threads, different times, different places, different words, all to make a big story that I can't see yet, peering through the underside of embroidery
The drum keeps beating, beating. Baby rocking back and forth with the beat. The first instrument available to little fingers. To hit and hear your touch resound.
Honestly, I'm tired. So many little lies. So many "fine's to "how are you" without really knowing each other. How many "how are you"s before it is a true question, not merely a greeting?
Meadow of flowers, tiger swallowtail on a black-eyed susan, Queen Anne's lace bobbing, rabbits rustling unseen and a red-winged blackbird sings.
Shifting waves, it's hard to change, to go a new direction, just like it's hard to stay when you have been moving so long, the rules of physics in real life
Apple in the orchard, filling up our bushel baskets, apple in the sink, bobbing on the water, apple peels with cinnamon making apple spaghetti, apples cut and boiling in the giant pot on the stove, apples churned and squeezed through to applesauce, apple rings sliced and laid on the dehydrator, applesauce in the downstairs freezer, applesauce half-microwaved with the middle still delicious apple ice.
Rafter full of hay, golden dust in the sunshine, cows chewing, saddle soap and leather, dust and growth
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