early times

Melanie locates the sugar bowl on the counter and spoons a few into her steaming mug with the logo of some forgotten company. She pours the cream and sips. 'Good morning to me,' she thinks. She sits on a stool at the counter and gathers the sections of paper spread out and discarded by her boyfriend, Charles. In local news: there's a story of a man saved from drowning; by his cat. A rare spot of good news against the backdrop of stories whose titles contain the words: murder, scandal, collapse. She reads a couple of lines and tosses the section back on the counter, and gives up on news.

Charles descends into the kitchen from what Melanie thinks of as "that weird stair". He smiles as he sees Melanie in her business suit. He's always found her sexiest in her work clothes. Something that he's never told her outright, but guesses she suspects. His gaze wanders down to her legs wrapped in nylons. He worships those knees, those calves.

Melanie flashes a smile, in turn, from the attention. "What do you think about Thai tonight?" Melanie asks to distract Charles from his current train of thought.

Charles knows that means she's almost done with her coffee and is headed out the door. "Great. Do you have time to meet me for lunch?"

Melanie eyes come unfocused for a fraction of a second. The thought of their last "lunch" almost makes her knees buckle, sends a shiver up her spine.

"yes," she says weakly.

"Probably," she declares, as she regains her composure. "I'll text you."

Melanie crosses to the dishwasher, going out of her way to brush against Charles going past.

Gladiolus

There is a moment in time where the flower comes. Our flowers have bloomed; they are thirsty.

It has struggled through it's many phases. It has rooted. It has sprouted. It has grown tall. It has budded.

Then it is gone.

There are those on the deck that are concerned with names. Its name is gladiolus. In Latin it means sword flower.

But I was often puzzled by the names they drew forth. These names meant next to nothing. We might as well have been talking in first names.

"Phillip's work is the perfect example of expressionism."

"Matthew's is the founder of restrained drawing."

These examples of art by names makes me think of paint by numbers.

I think back to the morning.

A child dances with the uncontrolled gait of the morning. He rolls his foot slightly too much, then not enough. His eyes still encrusted with the remnants of dream, but still skipping about his day. A feat I'd be willing to relearn and pay dearly for its rite. A splash of the heckler hitting water, as a teenager hits a target near a tank filled. The boy skips and sings about nothing that makes sense to rigid old minds.

I watch a small girl's satisfaction of blinking awake into the sun, clutching her fathers khakis. The father's iced latte suddenly spills and splashes the pavement. Afterwards, the bees will sing his praises in his own ear, which he will dismiss with a shake of his fist. The girl will sit near the puddle and watch them dance about and wonder upon the structures and patterns of wings.

This is, of course, our brightest Saturday. The children dance and take us with us. There's so much to learn in every moment. A world not yet of Rothko and Barney. There are always miracles.

And flowers and bees.