Magic happens everyday…
I usually walk home (a bit over 5 miles) after medical appointments that involve considerable muscular exercise, injections or cognitive behavioral work. I think I’ve convinced myself that the walk makes the former more effective; I have no idea where the belief came from… Anyway, yesterday, my first of three appointments was at two in the afternoon, so I knew that I was going to be done fairly late. Before heading to the hospital, I told a friend that I was grumpy because I would have to miss my usual walk.
“Why?” she said.
“You know that hospital is not in the best of neighborhoods,” I told her. “I wouldn’t mind being around there in the dark when I’m one hundred percent, but walking that area alone while half-numb and exhausted would be a little silly.”
“Didn’t think about that,” she said. “I have nothing after work. I could meet you in front of the hospital, walk with you down the hill and then take the train home.”
“You rocketh very mucho, my dearest.”
“Don’t you forget it. Call me when you’re about done. I’ll have The Professor drop me off.”
With an enormous grin on my face, I exchanged the flip-flops I was wearing for red knee-high boots—at the moment, boots are my best walking shoes.
When I walked out of my building, the summer heat slapped me with blazing hands. I arrived at the bus stop fanning myself. There were three people waiting for the bus, two women and a young man, and they looked at my boots and then frowned at each other. I leaned against the pole that holds the bus sign, began tapping my right-booted foot, did a little shoulder dance and by the time a grin filled my hot face the four of us were laughing at the top of our lungs. I love it when I help magic happen…
Lemon Jam and Red Knee-High Summer Boots
a poem for Magpie Tales 229
They saw oranges and grapefruit,
but not even one lemon.
They shook fists and raged for their due.
“Don’t you shout guilt in my face.”
The shopkeeper raised her chin towards the door.
“I did not put all the lemons in her basket.”
“No one should get so many lemons,”
said the hoariest of the shoppers.
“Who is this girl anyway?”
I walked into the shop and grinned—
I know the looks;
I get them 29 times a day.
“I’m she who wears knee-high boots in Midsummer,
collects memorable headscarves
and lusts after sensible messenger bags;
boots to walk steady over pain-pits,
scarves to cover for a shoulder that won’t do my hair,
a messenger bag across my breasts
to distribute the weight
I’m she, who took all the lemons
the Universe pushed into her eyeballs
and squeezed them, and sweetened
the sour little bastards
into a palatable dancing jam.”
I tapped the tip of my red knee-high booted foot,
did a little shoulder jig
and adjusted my headscarf
before offering sweet lemon jam
out of my strappy messenger bag.
The shoppers shook heads to my treat,
but the tremor in their smiles spoke of almost knowing
the taste of my lemons before the jam.
I grinned before walking out of the shop—
I know the looks;
I get them 28 times a day.