It is spring, after all
vignettes because everything is happening everywhere
All kinds of things are happening. It is spring, after all.
For example, the tiny dirty chihuahua, whom I suspect does have a home but wanders to and fro, whom I hadn’t seen in months, and I thought the worst—the tiny dirty chihuahua wandered into my yard at dusk as I smoked a joint on the stairs. It sniffed lightly, turning and fussing, lifted its back haunches (yes both), and pissed before it squinted at me and tottered out of sight.
and
I’m in line at the grocery store. There isn’t even a line, really - I’m next. My favorite cashier is helping a woman bag her items and their chatter is soft and indistinct. An older gentleman wheels behind me saying where’s the help? Why don’t they call for help? in a voice that’s musical and weathered by the years. I look at the non-line and turn to him, it’s not so busy, I say, I think it’s okay. He nods and says okay and stares at my face, his mouth wide with prominent crooked teeth. Why are you having a good day, he asks. I knit my brows just slightly and turn to him, well, it’s a beautiful day outside. He says that’s not why you’re having a good day so I ask him why am I having a good day? He mumbles a bit and before answering GMS. GMS, I ask? He says because G- God, M- Made, it S-So. God made it so. And I said sure, yes he did. He said you know wherever you go, the weather just is, and it’s okay because God made it so. I study his navy blue vest and wire-rim glasses glinting gold. His long-fingered hands. I said are you having a good day? And he says oh yes, GMS. He says God bless you and I say god bless you, too, before wheeling to the register.
and
A man sweating hard through a grey tracksuit shuffles along the sidewalk in a slow run. I watch as he blesses himself before looking both ways and hoofing it across a residential street.
and
There are four girls in the water, up to their thighs, backs rounded, arms retracted like mantises, hand-fishing. I think of Millet’s The Gleaners. French aristocracy didn’t like the painting much, didn’t like the sympathetic treatment of lowly farm laborers. They stoop to the green glinting fields in heavy skirts, their hands maybe chapped, worker’s hands. A friend once wrung her hands as we talked, my hands aren’t beautiful, they are worker’s hands. Her hands were small and strong and smooth. There is a photo of me at 12, in mime makeup, mime unitard, enormous long-fingered hands on either side of my face. They’ve always been soft, but they’ve always been worker’s hands.
and
Rain finally fell and everything is greening out
and
I saw a tortoise in the woods
and
If you watch, the world will do a funny tap dance, and you can write about and tell your friends or your mom or no one at all. It can be your little secret. But you gotta look for it.
xoxo, hanny
ps, if you’d like to hear me read this right into your lil ears, click play below
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Lovely snippet into a day in the life