| Lost and Found |
[Mar. 28th, 2010|11:52 pm]
rejectomorph
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I'll be having nightmares about what was under the couch I moved, even though it's all gone into the vacuum cleaner now. A great deal of it must have been blanket fuzz, as the couch only pretends to be a couch and is actually a bed. Each time I make it a bit of the blankets must come off and fall under it, to be hidden when the bed closes. Years of such droppings created what looked like a second carpet atop the first, but a rug of clumps and scraps all mixed with dust and strands of hair and cobweb. It was truly gross, and I'm glad it's gone.
The discovery of the volunteer carpet came when I was searching for my lost glasses. I eventually found them, though not under the couch. They had gone behind a drawing board that leans against the wall, and were apparently flung there from the pouch of my hoodie when I took the hoodie off. I didn't see them fly as my head was covered at the time. They were gone for almost twenty-four hours and were sorely missed. I'm glad they are back. That makes two things to be glad of in one day. Such abundance!
Between periods of cleaning I went out to inspect the breezy day and early spring's budding wonders. There is a puzzle this year. The sourgrass by the front door is thick and green yet still sports not a single blossom. I've never seen this before. The few patches of sourgrass that have cropped up in the back yard are full of little purple flowers, but the plants in front are nothing but leaves. I've been unable to find any indication that this is a sign of the apocalypse, but it is nonetheless distressing. At the back of my mind is the image of the first loose thread hanging from a cloth that will soon unravel, and me without a needle.
Sunday Verse
Afternoon
by Dorothy Parker
When I am old, and comforted,
And done with this desire,
With Memory to share my bed
And Peace to share my fire,
I'll comb my hair in scalloped bands
Beneath my laundered cap,
And watch my cool and fragile hands
Lie light upon my lap.
And I will have a sprigged gown
With lace to kiss my throat;
I'll draw my curtain to the town,
And hum a purring note.
And I'll forget the way of tears,
And rock, and stir my tea.
But oh, I wish those blessed years
Were further than they be!
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