Spillt Ink

They don't look like a couple in love although I've been informed they are.  She has said that he is the love of her life; I've seen it written on paper.  And, although she stays close to him, when I've seen them together, her eyes are somewhere else.  He never smiles, never laughs, never talks more than a few words at a time.  They argue often.  He stalks off during the argument.  His movements are heavy and wayward.  He stalks off, away, out of the room, the door, the house.  She goes shopping.

He walks out the double doors, a pole over his left shoulder, tied to the pole is two small bags.  He wants to walk away without a word, but people sitting outdoors have seen him, they know his name was on the list, yell at him.  He pauses, says a few words. Reluctant words. He gives a small wave,  then, continues to walk down the sidewalk, across the paved road, through the gate in the wire fence, to his car.  A few moments later, his car is out of the parking lot, has turned left on Williamsburg Pike, into the late morning traffic.

My friend, Robert, is gone.

This morning at WalMart, a hanging plant that was not for sale.  

Why?  

Within the plant, among the greenery, a small bird had built a nest.

Driving too fast for detail, a glimspe, an impression, small and furred, a russet color, just large enough to not fit in the palm of my hand, creeping towards the edge of the road, almost there, a foot, maybe a foot and a half away, creeping along, with legs sprayed and bent like a lizard's.

The man stood at the front of the pharmacy line. Black, tall, in a leather, a below-the-knee, trenchcoat. Not a young man, although with no white in his hair, it is difficult to determine his age. Thirties, forties, fifties, he could have fit in any of those age groups without question. In his hand, he held a thick book, brilliant white endpages, a text, I thought, although it is not that unusual to see men with Bibles in their hand at the hospital, however, no religious text has endpages so pristine. He soon collected his prescription and sat it on the table in front of me to check the contents. Some of the medicine was missing and as he turned to tell the pharmacist this, he laid the book down. It was a textbook, Making Literature Matter. I want to pick it up, look at the table of contents, flip through the chapters, but, instead, I simply jotted down the title. 

A few comments from this year's outdoor viewing.

The home that put blue lights on pine trees last year, didn't this year.  They had kept the lights on for most of January and every night when I drove past, I silently thanked them for the light in the dark.

There's a few punk decorations.  Blacklight/blue deer and trees.  Limegreen spiraled trees sometimes with a lemon yellow star.  No orange.  No pink this year.

Overlapping animated elves.  Just as I drive past one home, the elves overlap and there is this creature of green and red with too many waving arms and too many legs and it seems as though this creature is beckoning me, inviting me, daring me to believe.

A reindeer of lights four or five feet in the air.  By itself.  Hung in a tree.

A tree of red, above a house, and as I approach, fifty-five miles per hour, it looks as though it is suspended in space, hung in space, alien or alienated.

In one window, a ball of tangled multicolored lights set upon the ledge.

Several homes have done this, placed a single strand of lights in a single circle over a small tree or shrubbery.

And, seen once or twice, the strand or strands of lights is looped atop a tree, looped as though the lights form palm leaves.

He stood at the jewelry counter, leaning over it, pointing to items as he told the clerk which one he was curious about.  He worn one of those golden brown winter coats with a dark collar, made for warmth and wear, like farmers wear or men who work in the weather.  His hair was cut short, more gray than blonde.  His face was clean shaven, although worn, ragged, yet handsome. The clerk pulled the ring out of the display case and moved the little tag.  She gave him the list price, then the discount price.  The discount price was almost two hundred dollars.  "How about that one?"  He pointed to another ring.  She removed it, moved the tag, told him the price.  The final price was almost two hundred and fifty dollars.  The man shook his head and moved away from the counter.  Slowly, almost gently, he dodged other customers as he headed for the exit.

Laid gently, in the bed of an off-white pickup truck, was what appeared to be the flattened remains of the exterior of a brand new, white car. Jagged-edged puzzle pieces. Over-sized fragments of discarded egg shell. Hand-sized metallic snowflakes.