Outside This Window

It rained a little and then the sun came out and two fat, grown-up doves landed in the spaces created hoping for exactly such. They were foraging for seeds and it brought my heart the joy I seek, to know that I can help in some small way. I let the weeds grow — that was all I did — oh, and pulled Bermuda grass so that those particular weeds could grow.
Now the cats have entertainment from the window — chittering, they sit, on the same table where I am sat, hunting doves from behind the glass. The doves wonder if the stray cat outside might pounce but they have said that they don’t worry about the ones behind the glass or me, even though they see us seeing them. They get a little closer, scouring every inch.
My mug needs a refill so I start to get up like I would if I had a cat sleeping on my lap –ever so carefully so as not to disturb, too much, whoever I am trying to give full freedom of human action movements. The helicopter in the schoolyard turns its loud engine and they fly away anyway — the helicopter too — having just come for show and tell. The cats stay looking out the window as the birds fly off and then they go on to other things as well — pouncing and trying to fly as if they can. I’ve left the front door open just for them to see more even though it makes me cold.
Now it’s easier to get more coffee since things changed. It wasn’t me who made them move but now I’m just as free as they.
As I stand to go and fill my mug, my head turns just in time to see a pastel purple saucer from a cup and saucer set, (the cup’s here too, somewhere, chipped, taking up another place of honor), that Grannie somehow managed to get moved to me, sitting in the glass-door cabinet. How did she know just what to get to me or how much I favor pastel purple — I nearly didn’t know her? Her quilts and embroidery are the same things I love — pastel pinks, yellows, purples and flowers and some of those came too. I believe her memory is in my genes and I like what she liked and somehow she vibed me and made sure the things she knew I’d like arrived in a box from Nova Scotia after she left to find the margins in another world.
It’s the only noticeable purple thing in that cupboard — a china cabinet filled with lovely things to look at and think about using sometime for a soiree. And then I think I probably never will but it’s fun to think that I could get enough courage to have people around milling and engaging in a salon-type mingling — artist friends. I likely won’t — it’s all too hard on my emotions and why make yourself do something that isn’t favorable to your own soul? There are red and blue things in their too and red and blue make purple — my artist friends might notice.
I thought the helicopter landing earlier was the start of a war. I’m too sensitive to outside peace and quiet interruptions like basses in car trunks and helicopters landing in the schoolyard…and the, may I say, damn trains? Relentless trains.
It seems like there are giants in the world outside this window that seems safe to look out like the doves seem to feel safe to look in. But when things are less invasive, the doves and I commune — though they are often hiding in the trees now to keep from being pounced on by BigGrayStray.
I’m smelling skunks these days. It must be skunk season because I’ve caught a whiff a few times lately.
It’s a running joke between one friend and I, or is it me, because years ago — somewhere around 1977, we were driving down a back road in Missouri when we crossed the path of a skunk and both inhaled, sighed and said at the same time, “I love the smell of a skunk.” And I do and she does too and we always laugh about that time we discovered that about ourselves. I like the smell of skunk-weed too — they smell very much the same. I might not like it so much if I had to wear it — skunk perfume. I think it smells like rubber burned. At any rate, it certainly doesn’t offend me.
Smell are just other things for interpreting worlds — internal and external. Some smells provoke a memory, others help identify a possible trouble like burning food or a sweet perfume a boyfriend wore. Yes, he was trouble too. But sweet trouble — and smelled so good. Thirty years later, the smell can bridge the time and make you think you’re right back in it.
Damn trouble. I’d best just keep, looking out this window.

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