FRIDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY, MONDAY

On Friday, I went swing dancing. I slipped a vintage dress over my head, a sheer dress with a floral pattern. As I waited for Hans, I patrolled Shelby and Prospect streets. Back and forth, back and forth, I walked. My footsteps lead me around the block, but not away from anxiety. Finally, there was Hans, in a blue shirt and a bow tie, his long hair teasing the collar of his shirt. Inside the theater was a cache of suspenders and spats, flouncy skirts and ponytails. Twisting, turning, keeping time. I couldn't do it. Not me. Not that time. But, still, I was asked to dance. One of my partners was an older gentleman, a white-whiskered man whose guidance was passed with a thick breath and a firm tongue. And then there was a man named Patrick, who, to his credit, was far more patient with me than I was with myself. Discouraged, I grabbed my denim jacket, tried to fight childish tears, and allowed Hans to walk me home. That was Friday.

On Saturday, I went on a ten-mile bike ride, half of which involved pedaling against the wind. I read. I sewed. I called my mom. I went shopping on the east side, for flowers and craft materials. I saw Hans once again. We joked in the car, laughed about who knows what, and ate po-boys at Papa Roux. That was Saturday.

On Sunday, I read Rainbow Rowell's Attachments. I devoured it, that book. My eyes raked across each page, vacuuming words. It had journalism. It had Omaha. It had email. It had relationships. It had references and subtleties to the metro area, to Sokol Auditorium and the World Herald and Sweet 98.5 and even 96.1's Pillow Talk, which I can promise that I, too, listened to. Oh, that book. When I finished it, I set it on the coffee table and stared, not ready to let go. Not ready to let go of Lincoln and Beth and all those words that reminded me so much of home. So I called my mom again. And I talked to Ty. And I sewed some more. And I went outside and planted the herbs and the flowers that I had bought the day before. And, later in the afternoon, I buried a bird. I had found it just outside the building, sideways and with stiff legs that were bent, held tight. It was dead, but I ached. Ached and tried, desperately, to remember the small poem that my mother used to read to me. It had appeared in a book of children's prayers, and had even featured a funeral for a similar creature of flight. But I couldn't remember the poem, and I couldn't find a shovel, and I couldn't let the dead bird alone, not with a trail of ants. And so I made a cardboard coffin and scooped the bird into it and brought it to my yard and, between the bushes, dug a hole with a garden hoe, asking God to Please forgive me for pestering the worms. And when the hole was big enough and deep enough, I placed the box in the hole and covered it with dirt and leaves and it was buried. That was Sunday.

And on Monday, it rained.







7 comments:

  1. Beautiful, profound and inspiring post as always xxx

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    1. Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

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  2. The second photo has such a vintage feel... I bet the sky was that exact color.. I've taken a few photos where the sun was masked thru hazy days and gotten that effect... As far as the swing dancing, I can imagine the older man talking u thru the steps and I also felt your frustration- I knew exactly how u felt...

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    1. All the photos here are from a walk a took a week or so ago, when it was around 70 degrees. The sun was setting, and with some of the flowers blooming, everything seemed a bit ethereal. As for swing dancing? It was an experience! I'd definitely try it again, but I just felt discouraged that particular night. For as patient and explanatory as the older gentleman was, I still wasn't getting it! I'm all feet, haha.

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  3. I like your view of life and your adventures.

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    1. And I'm glad you enjoy reading about them. Thank you for stopping by, once again.

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  4. Sounds like a beautiful weekend! Isn't it crazy that there are flowers everywhere?? I'm still struggling to believe that it is FINALLY spring, but it is still cold hahaha.

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