Wildflowers

 

Every year was the same.

She ordered several pounds of assorted wildflowers, enchanted by the photos in the catalog- veritable blankets of color.

Meticulously hand-pulling the unwanted grasses and weeds from her wildflower area, she’d scatter the seeds, heart filled with hope that this year, this year would be different.

Then, she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, several brave seedlings would appear, and she watched them breathlessly, fingers crossed.

Did they bloom? Some did. Others did not.

Did the ones that bloomed self-seed for the following year?

Almost never.

But she never gave up.

There was always next year.

Crone

 

She’d had an abbreviated Maiden phase, cut short by sexual assault and early marriage. She had her first child at age 20.

The next four decades she was Mother to children, husbands, and old people.

She gazed at the woman in the mirror; not the naïve Maiden or the busy Mother.

Those days were over. Her children had grown and her husband crossed over.

He was still with her in literal Spirit, only making her stronger.

Calm eyes looked back at her, hair graying softly and laugh lines intertwined with worry lines.

It was time.

“So Mote It Be, Motherfuckers.”

Payback Day

 

He’d been shooting the damn blue jays for years.

Their harsh calls annoyed him, and he vowed to kill any that flew into his yard.

Decades passed and he’d eliminated hundreds of the little fuckers, and then it happened.

First one, then three, then maybe a dozen blue jays landed in the big pine outside his back door.

They didn’t call out, they just…stared at him.

Then, he heard it. The loveliest chorus of some sort of woodwind instrument he’d ever heard, deep in the forest.

As he followed the sound, enchanted, the jays in the pine watched him go.

Littlefoot Feet

 

She was describing Littlefoot to friends as they were standing in the event barn, telling them that a few times she’d startled Littlefoot sleeping on the sofa, protected from dogs because the doors were closed and Littlefoot could jump over the half wall.

“About the size of a bobcat, with hind legs much longer than front legs, so it hops like a bunny unless running flat-out. Solid black, tufted ears, flat face and bright blue eyes.”

“Does it have fingers?” her friend asked, pointing at the tracks on the floor.

“Huh. Never got a good look at its front feet…”

Snake

 

He’d never really thought about snakes till he moved to Texas, where the rural farewell phrase was, “Watch for snakes!” even if you were leaving in your car.

He had a general unease about snakes. They were silent legless dinosaurs who seemed to live in an alternate universe from fish, mammals and birds.

Every time he went outside, his eyes panned back and forth ahead of him, watching for snakes, and it became second nature. He felt confident that he had this Snake Thing down.

Then the rat snake plummeted from the big oak, landing on his head and neck.

 

The Only Way Out

 

“The only way out is through” she repeated to herself over and over again.

How many times had she re-invented herself?
At least half a dozen in her 66 years on this earth.

Once per decade, give or take.

Every time she thought she had her ducks in a row and could relax, the damn ducks migrated, turned into pigeons, or exploded.

And here she was again. Bit by bit, all the things that she thought were permanent and stable pieces of her life, she was giving away or leaving behind.

“The only way out is through.”

Step by step.

Opossum

 

She shuddered as she grabbed the naked tail and tossed the motionless critter over the fence.

Her dog had grabbed the teenaged opossum and flung it into the air like a furry sock.

It lay, teeth bared, mouth open, folded over like a macabre little origami, obviously dead as dead can be.

The dog glared at her, then stared longingly at the sad pile of fur on the other side of the fence.

Later, the dog barked in alarm as the dead opossum righted itself, shook the dog slobber off of its fur, and waddled away, not even looking back.