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The Dream that was Arcadia
She just showed up one day with her bag over her shoulder and the mud from her shoes leaving size seven memories in my freshly vacuumed rug and said, “I’m here to stay. Where’s your bathroom? What’s for dinner? Nothing with garlic, I hope.”
There wasn’t anything with garlic, I told her. Just something Cajun I’d been working on, but nothing with garlic. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall, just across from the bedroom.
“Good,” she said. “I tend to get up and down in the night. By the way, I sleep on the right side of the bed.”
There wasn’t anything with garlic, I told her. Just something Cajun I’d been working on, but nothing with garlic. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall, just across from the bedroom.
“Good,” she said. “I tend to get up and down in the night. By the way, I sleep on the right side of the bed.”
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Southern German
“When all else fails, when everything is gone to hell and you know, you really know, that there’s nothing at all that you can do about it…make history!”
That’s the best thing my daddy ever told me. And he only said it once. He spit the words from his mouth like a death row inmate giving his final two cents on life and retribution.
That’s the best thing my daddy ever told me. And he only said it once. He spit the words from his mouth like a death row inmate giving his final two cents on life and retribution.
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Penny
Chester stood at the bottom of his porch steps. He rubbed his toes in the soggy, brown stretch of mud that should have been his front yard. Three months of rain had left it as soft as fresh bread and the dogs had made a game of digging in the mud. He spat on one of his black and brown beagles as it splashed by in front of him, on the heels of a little gray rabbit.
“Too much rain this year. Everything’s drowning.”
“Too much rain this year. Everything’s drowning.”