Sunday, April 28, 2013

Good Morning Justin...

Letter to my Son
Sunday, 28 April


Good Morning Justin…

I woke up with a start just a couple of minutes ago thinking it was already morning and I had forgotten to write my letter to you.  Actually it is just after midnight so I’ve settled down, I have my coffee and I’m tapping on the keyboard, just like normal.  There goes my alarm.  What a crazy night for dreams this has been.  In fact, the entire week has been  insane with dreams.  I will give you a for instance.  The other morning I woke to find the lower corner of my front door leading to the living room had been sawed away.  The opening was big enough for people to crawl in and out of my apartment.  I complained to the manager that there was a big triangular hole in my door and I needed it fixed.  The manager wasn’t helpful and I suspected she cut the hole herself.  When I returned later in the day I couldn’t find my apartment.  I looked for number 207 but it was no longer there.  All the other numbers were there but mine was gone.  That’s not all.  The hallway leading to my apartment was now very tall.  It had a ceiling that was at least as high as a three story building.  The floor didn’t seem level, either.  I can’t be sure but I think there were strange little people running about.  Were they trying to hide from me?  It seemed my world had turned into a cartoon.  I went to the manager to once again complain.  Where’s my apartment?  It’s not so bad that it’s now gone but all my stuff has disappeared with it and I want it all back.  It’s no use.  Talking has no effect on anyone.  I’m so frustrated.  Frantically I wander long hallways looking for my home.  The floor tilts first up, then down, then up again.  The walls become increasingly high.  By now the ceiling is nearly out of sight.  Am I imagining the distant silhouettes of strange people slinking from hiding place to hiding place?  Where’s the door marked 207?  Nowhere.  Must I now live without all my treasured things?  Don’t cry for help.  It’s of no use.

Morning again.  Make coffee.  Plan the day.  Does it matter?  Plans are mere suggestions.  The dreams I’m having slip away.  I don’t bother to remember.

The worms fall daily on me from the tree.  They inch their way about my sweatshirt, drawing their back end to their front, bowing their skinny body into the air as they do, then extending their front, grasping my shirt and repeating the process.  I flick them into the garden.  The robins eat them like French fries.  The birds squabble among themselves over who owns the garden.  It’s very tasty here.  The food is fattening.  Wild flowers are now peeking through the dirt.  It should rain all day today.  There will definitely be May flowers this year.  The plants, first thought to be weeds, have turned out to be lilac Wisteria.  One day they will grow to be as tall as trees. 

The other day I saw my first woodpecker of the year.  Today I noticed a swallow swooping about vacuuming a diet of insects from the air.  Gangs of noisy crows strut about the neighborhood.  They become increasingly obnoxious as cool spring turns to tropical heat.  They’ll expect pizza crust to be left them on the summer lawn.  No need to worry about the squirrels.  They won’t eat it.  They’re busy stuffing themselves with last year’s acorns.  It’s a fat world.  Everyone here is getting way too fat.


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