The morning glories, the gorgeous little blooms of solid pink or purple or white that have resisted blooming all summer long from their perch wrapped about the cottonwood tree which grows so close to the patio outside the back door of my parents' house, have finally decided to show off.
Junior, one of the feral cats that got fixed and gets fed by my mother, is still not quite certain what to do with me. She crouches low and watched with sea-green eyes, careful lest I get too close to my mother, her source of love and affection and lap and food. The three cats who spend much time around the house range all around the out buildings and walk long yards to the patio for food every day.
The wind is blowing like mad today, sending the sunlight scattering all over the blue walls of the living room where I slept, curled up in my father's chair, for most of the early afternoon, done in by a good book.
I slept well when I slept. Dreamt of an orange carpet found under layers and layers of gray disgusting foot traffic.
I have burnt my bagel bites, but my mother is taking me in to town to shop for groceries for the week. There must be milk. And meat. And cereal. And cheese. It is what must happen for life to continue and to grow and to become something other than what it is now. Patience is not my strong suit, but I will get over it and remember that after 34 years of life, I do have the ability to see things from something like a rational perspective.
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