Like The Corners of My Mind

I planted the phlox last night, evenly spaced along the rock wall in the front garden. I think they will do well. I also planted a pot of English lavender, bought because I liked the soft frondy leaves and the thick, forest scent, and another purplish flower whose name I cannot recall. Right now, a curtain of rain is drawn across the farm, and everything, including the potatoes, is getting a good watering. The miniature azalea is in full bloom. It has a few dead spots inside, and will require some brave and judicious pruning. I want to take photos before I get at it with the shears.

And now the name Billy Shears is going through my mind. Frampton may have come alive, but he made a dead mistake with that choice.

I’m still on my daily hummingbird vigil. No sign yet, but we are prepared and eager.

I’ve been sidetracked with many things related to this blog of late, including the short story I began serializing and a serialized memoir of my mother.

Memoir. Sometimes I whisper the word to myself. I enjoy the way my lips pop off of each other and almost blow a mwah kiss into the dark air. I am weary of these selective autobiographical sketches. Especially the ones written in the spirit of the day. Like the ones written by the walking pasta salad named Anne Lamott. The bristling, combative “Look how weird I am, and I just double-dog dare you to judge me! variety. These things exhaust me because I do judge. We all do. We lie to God and to the poor souls who have gone before us when we pretend to be nonjudgmental.

The rain continues outside. Jinx and Dixee are sleeping in their blanket-assisted curlicues while the night-house sounds drop down around them. Mrs. Orr and I will soon follow. This has been a glorious springtide so far.

~ S.K. Orr