You sit on the table. You and your peach skin, soft and constantly opening. I savor your presence knowing you’re only here a while longer. In a while, you will shed all of yourself and die. Perhaps that is the way each of us comes and goes. Our little hearts, so tightly closed until we have no more effort left and must trust, open, surrender. Once we have, others enjoy our true nature. Your scent reaches me across the table. A ladybug lands on you. I open the windows and share you with the breeze. It is what spring gives us. Hope. Life.
I used to think a man, money, a fancy job title could bring me happiness. But the more and more I age, the simpler things become. My home is not filled anymore with soulless store-bought items, plastics and mass-production, but carefully selected pieces. Just like you. The table on which you rest was cut, hammered and stained by a friend whose hands I shook and filled with hard-earned money. The felt bird to your left was poked and shaped by my own hands. This bird is how we begin our day, with a poem, a blessing between mother and child. We rise with joy like singing birds giving thanks for this day.
And the napkin to your right, left from this morning’s breakfast, shows faces of friendly felines. This napkin is from my grandmother. Nearing her nineties, she still presses her foot to the sewing machine pedal that has made decades of clothing, quilts and such. This napkin is her hand gliding across my son’s sticky cheeks and shined lips.
The floor on which all of this rests is not another dirtied floor my feet slide across, but instead, there is a tending, a wiping and cleaning, an offering for what its offers my family. This is the floor that takes my feet from the warmth of my home into the crisp garden that seems to perk up with a smile, even in its small and humble space. In time, you will be brought back to the earth, I will clip more of you next week, and fill a mason jar with fresh water. I think of all of this just sitting here with you. Nothing but simplicity brings so much to mind.
behind the scenes:
This flash piece was inspired by a prompt to write about a subject without mentioning the name itself.