Mind-full Conversation … a continuing reality
The star, although it is 92.96 million miles away, reached out heating the medium weight pieced plew quilt that, in turn, warmed the sullen auburn haired lady. Although the solar flares erupted, she did not notice. Cuddling under both – the sun and the beaver pelt – she sipped on a warm cup of Mexican Coffee. The tequila, Kahlua and coffee worked to warm her from the inside out, but as she shivered she realized neither the liquor nor the sun were accomplishing their goal.
She glanced up at the sky; her cloudy, bloodshot eyes – framed by the red skin that held her lashes – searched for anything, but found nothing of value.
It was then that she; spoke addressing a question unheard by anyone else, not that there was anyone near to hear even her words.
“I too have dreamed of an Orange Blob tsantsa,” she mumbled like the rumpot she looked like frequently at this time of year. Well, at least consistently for the last five years.
But she knew it did not take copious amounts of intoxicants to make her look this way. It was, in part, why she had taken to holding up in this secluded location each year early in September. To hide; to avoid explaining; to avoid faking the happiness others wanted for her.
“Have you taken up studying how to shrink heads Lovie? I am sure there are some Ecuadorian Jivaroians up there to learn from. After all, I don’t believe there is anything in the bible that says war trophies, including shrunken heads is a bad thing,” she rambled on a bit.
“No momma, but I may look at that, now that you mention it. I have been studying the ylem,” she distinctly heard her son’s voice, a voice she hoped she never forget.
“You’ve got enough time now to study something so big, don’t you Lovie,” she said nodding. “You know, your would-be bride sent me one of your school notebooks the other day,” she smiled remembering the joy she felt looking through it. “It was your bio-med notebook in which you had notes on splitting atoms.”
“Why are you being so stuthious-like?”
“What? My ulu is sharp – it reminds me of the Arabian knife you were given at the age of 6 by our antique dealer – my whit is dull though and his actions make me akin to a uniped. Sometimes his actions cripple me, still. Make me feel like a uniped with the wind knocked out of my lungs each time I try to get past this.”
“Oh momma … please don’t be so sad. Gmaw is here now. I am not alone. And I am waiting for you, patiently now momma. I am watching over you and the girls, and I see you are often better.”
Something brushed her cheek. Was that the wind or my son’s hand? she wondered as she leaned into it, gaining a shred of comfort.
“Remember momma, he is as shameful as a wittol – heck momma, he’s worse than a man who knows and tolerates his wife is unfaithful. He’s had a set of twins with his effing half-sister and lived with her as his wife. Pay him no mind momma.”
Her stomach turned a bit at the truth in her son’s statement.
“Why don’t you go bring others joy, expand upon your tasty talents and become the saucier you’ve dreamed of and celebrate the 19 years I had, we had together? I have learned there are mole sauces, reductions, hollandaise and so many more sauces you can learn to make,” he encouraged.
“Nineteen years and 110 days, Lovie,” the sadness lingered in the air.
“And 110 days momma,” she could hear the joy in his voice.
She lifted her coffee mug toward the clouds as the tears welled in her eyes. “I will try son,” a statement she did not feel up to embracing. Instead she followed it by taking a big gulp of the warm liquid. But the day you got your wings still stings.”
“I know momma, sorry.”