Honest moments.
Honest, meaning candid and unscripted.
Like the scent coming off each home in the dark of evening as I walk. A dryer vent, food cooking on a stovetop, and a fire pit. The smells telling me a story of the life inside the walls.
The sweetness of irises, and honeysuckle, and roses, instructing my nose.
The sound of my filthy shuffling feet in flip flops that are so stretched, I spread my toes wide to keep them on.
The comfort of lounge pants I stole from my husband with hopes he may not notice.
The sight of reappearing debris on a floor that never stays clean.
The taste of the salty foreheads of played-hard children.
The clumps of fresh mowed grass gathering underfoot and tracking inside.
The thread of emails and texts left unanswered until tomorrow.
The dread of year-end school shuttling.
The folded laundry on the table that won’t make it into drawers before wearing.
The hot bath I took last night that seems now like a week ago.
The counting down of days that I have to make peanut butter sandwiches for lunches.
The throw pillows that are forever being thrown.
The shoes on the trampoline and the bike I pull into safety that it wouldn’t be stolen.
The clouds lit up in the indigo sky, making it look like stone-washed denim.
The hammock that I consider a second home.
The black cat that drools on me when I pet him.
The way I want to be so honest.
The way I want to be so real.
How much of the world is not and cannot.
How most of us live at less than capacity.
How much courage it takes to look at yourself before examining anyone else.
How little I really need; how much I really want.
All the honest minutes accruing into a few honest hours, then days, and so forth. The unplanned and unscripted. The subconscious. These make up most of our lives, and much of our dreams.
So sincere.
So true and telling.
SHE GILDS THE LILY: a lavish waste of words and wonder 