Good morning. I am waiting on coffee. You? My head is loud today. The usual song and dance of doubts and fear about the future. I put on my earphones and choose to focus on the act of writing. Here is a short story/poem called cure.
Happy Friday friends. Glad you are here alive with me.
cure
Joan was a good girl.
Praised, favored and adored.
No memorable mischief.
Loved summer, dresses (according to her mom), the outside and books.
Preferred to burn her piano down than to practice.
She was curious about the way dogs walk and always thought they were tiny horses.
Tried to ride them again and again; didn’t go far.
She remembered liking herself and then one day, not any more.
Had smart and ambitious girl friends.
Had mental breakdowns.
She didn’t register boys’ existence until high school.
Soon, crush. And first love. Confusion. And pain. She cried.
Learned to filter her words. Learned to please. Learned to hide.
Ashamed of herself, Joan forgot the comfort from self respect. So, she ran. Must be a way out.
This man. That job. An enviable shoe collection. Two divorces. Five dogs.
No cure.
One Sunday morning, she sits at a park bench watching squirrels hide nuts.
Someone in a blue baseball hat stops by.
Hello. Hi. How are you? Do you need any help finding home?
Joan says nothing at first, then she looks up and smiles, I am new to this area. Is it always this beautiful?
