Photo: “Evolve” by Johnny Swanson
It was a dark and stormy night. Possibly the worse sentence written in the English language, but now it’s out there. I am not a good writer, but I hope to be one one day.
So, I have been sixteen for about twenty minutes now, and all I have to show for it is a silent parrot, a blank journal, and a business card of someone my father claims is my godmother.
I have decided to call my quiet parrot Princess Sophie.
I have decided to write in only emerald in the journal. I think the color will set off the peacock feathers prints featured on the bottom of each page.
Someone told me a peacock drops his feathers when reminded of his ugly feet. So, the key to staying pretty, at least when you are a peacock, is not to look down. I am not sure what kind of person goes around sharing this kind of nonsense with kids.
Well, I have been sixteen for nearly an hour and am still as judgmental and fashionable as when I was fifteen.
I am tempted to do a double edge hope/curse and wish for something to happen. A brief peek inside my shirt and in the mirror tells me it’s not something I need to happen, it’s me I need to happen.
“Are you there?”
“Only for a few hours.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I know how you talk when you really feel something, and ‘I’ve missed you?’”
“She scratches me. And, still I hold her knowing her pain is more lovely than her absence.”
“How long has it been this time?”
“May I be brief or must I thrust your answer among the buds of May?”
Time goes merrily forward leaving behind wind pulled feathers and fountains of sand whispers.
Pages must burn.