We are waiting for a storm. The winds are high and warm, all the spring birds sing a frantic chirrup as if playing chase in the voice of little girls. Then it quiets, cars are missing from the streets, the clouds still hold their spongy fill. Our small magnolia, always last to bloom in a town of flowered trees, pokes its tiny, scruff-covered tufts upward hungry for the season.
Spring storms, I need them.
It occurred to me recently how much I love coffee–the full-bodied smell penetrating the impenetrable morning, a hot cup teasing my palms, ritual percolating in my earliest memories. More than chocolate, I love coffee.
There are other things too that I can state with absolute certainty, that above all else, they bring me total and complete joy. Unequivocal joy.
Do you remember the light off wet pavement in July after dinner when the gray of the sky matched your fork and your spoon, and the rain finally stopped, and the clouds unzipped, and the sun sneaked out, and you stomped in fits?
There is a twang and vibration, an hallucinatory pachinko, that occurs when one’s mood is matched perfectly to a piece of music. On my worst days, I dance like an idiot hopping foot to foot, windmills for arms, unbinding the knotted kinks in my soul. On my best days, I do the same, an unbridled wallop of a dance holding hands with my daughters or bouncing them on my hip. We are free. We are free. We are free.
We are we sitting on the couch in a great human lump reading stories from picture books with bellies full of Saturday pancakes while the sun is sunning or the rain is raining and Mama and Daddy remember, or forget, that responsibilities are what get us to our real life.
And there are the letters arranged to words, the heartbeats of sparrows, clinked one after another after another. Acute pinpricks, a stippling of language, stroke by stroke until the last.
Tell me, what is unequivocal?