I spent Beckett's nap out on my roof today. After endless days of laundry folding I was beginning to think my heart had been spirited away with a few single socks. But now with a little windburn on my cheeks and phantom dirt under my fingernails (I can feel it, but I can't see it) I feel a quickened beating in my chest, right where it belongs.As in my aviary, where Miss Isabelle hold the lion's share of my affection, now too in my garden there's an individual I hold unequally dear. This little ranunculus. I'm enamored. I'm hoping to climb out onto the roof again during tomorrow's nap, weather permitting, this time with a sketchbook and pencil in lieu of an apron and trowel.
And speaking of weather, I'm hoping the promise of some new spring inspired artwork may entice my mom to stop her snowdance. If she continues on her current course, and my ranunculus suffers, she may end up with a tragic novel manuscript instead. Star crossed lover dies an icy, frostbitten pneumonic death in the arms of his new bride. Nobody needs to hear that story again.
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