Wishful Summer

The world is drifting and the air is full of dancing and movement as the thistles, once tall and proud, vivid and purple, now hunched and brittle and graying on their crowns, release their seedlings onto the wind to be carried far across these hills and green fields. This morning I stood a long moment at my window while the world blinked its eyes open, stretched and slowly sped up and watched the wispy tendrils of fluff drift past me, their many arms splayed wide like the fragile, pale bodies of spindly spiderlings carried on the new breeze of dawn. They hovered and spun, competing with the paper wasps for the sun's favor, and then whipped away to dance unseen before other sleepy windows and dreaming bodies.

While Duncan roams the grass, chasing these alabaster whisps and pouncing on wiry, red twigs, the shape and curve of grass snakes, I have stood motionless on the gentle slope of the hillside, listening to the doves silhouetted on the eves, reaching out my palm to catch passing bits of fluff as they drift past, cradling each gently in the curve of my hand and making wish after whispered wish before releasing them into the air once again.

I don't know where the idea came from but I have somehow convinced myself with the certainty of a child, that if the seedling is borne aloft and is carried away into the haze of the sun, if it travels far without touching the ground or skimming the surface of the sharp grass or catching itself on the severe, dark iron of the fence, that the wish will come true and that my daydreams will drift forever across this land, waiting to be seen by new eyes and touched by other, gentle hands.

(Music by Abel Korzeniowski, from the incredible film, "A Single Man.")

Girls

The truth is not many girls visit our apartment. There aren't many guys either for that matter. Ken and I have startlingly sparse social lives outside of those people we know from work. It wasn't always this way, of course. For a time after we moved to Denver I had weekly Sunday night get-togethers that sometimes hosted up to twenty people. But those days are long gone and most of our time at home is spent alone, doting on the kids, eating and sleeping.

Duncan doesn't get to see many women, other than my mother and sister once or twice a year, and Melissa on the occasional play-dates we arrange at The Glen. Other than that his only female contacts come from Winnie and Olive and Kona. I'm not quite sure what he thinks of them, but I think he likes them. So tonight when Summer, my long lost friend from high school, arrived and spent a couple of hours with us, Duncan didn't seem to want to leave her alone, sitting with her on the couch and laying at her feet. I had no idea how comfortable Summer was with that arrangement, being crowded off the couch, taking the occasional foot in the ribs and having a big red dog lay on her jacket, but she handled it gracefully.

Pip is the same way. He adores women. He grew up in Illinois sitting on my friend April's lap. When Jen was here last Fall he wouldn't leave her alone. I think he's a boob man, Pip, crawling up their laps and in their faces, trying to rest against their chests, nuzzling their cheeks, turning up the Charm Volume all the way. Were he a boy he'd be a frat boy and a lady killer, much to the dismay of his two dads.

Winnie, of course, is intensely jealous of all women, looks on them with complete and utter indifference which sometimes borders on brazen contempt. She hardly moved from the couch to investigate Summer, turned her back on her and behaved in that way that makes "Dog People" despise cats. I'm sure she'll take up extra room on my hip tonight just for opening the door to a woman.

And Duncan and Pip will spread out on the bed for allowing her to leave. Boys!