Short Stories

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Shoulders back, foot atop a whale bone. She takes the feathered gloves and puts them on her hands. They are shorter than she would have imagined, a hawk’s feathers: Brown, chocolate, gold. Stripes play out across her fingers. She does not want to think of the reason why the hawk is only feathers now.

What is it that was so special about that day—we were three generations gardening. Sowing seeds, getting dirty, eating, drinking and laughing. We were mother, daughter, and granddaughter. Not just 3 generations, but three generations of women, and like life itself, we were represented in all our aspects: willowy young tree, just starting to form, with roots easing into the warm soil, head facing to the sun. The mature tree, trunk thick and strong, branches out to protect and shelter. And finally, the older tree, trunk gnarled, but wise, whispering secrets of the winds.

He stands in line, tall, thin, elderly, nondescript. He blends into the magazine rack. He stands there with three items, waiting to check out. Behind him steps a woman with a cart full of groceries and a baby in her arms. The man shyly offers her his place. “Why don’t you go next?”

“Really? Oh, thank you,” says the woman, “that’s very sweet of you.”

Red sneakers. I had never worn red sneakers until that fateful day. Red was daring, dangerous, called attention to itself. I never wore red sneakers. I was much more comfortable with white ones, or even black ones. Those allowed me to slide unobtrusively across the road with no one noticing.

Poetic Plantings
Landscape Design