Names for those wrinkles

Names for those wrinkles

"Have you names?" The voice was firm and solid, but the source escaped the man. At first, he thought to ignore the question. A meandering flight attendant no doubt. But, the voice and the question grew.

"Have you names for those wrinkles?" Well there you go, more revealed as to the direction of the un-unsourced question. Alex was looking into the small hand mirror, the one that is pock marked or wearing short of the silver that makes for reflection. Who ever was asking ... about his wrinkles had a nerve. The words were on his tongue when a bird half the size of his palm lighted on the huckleberries. The Titmouse was a sweet enough creature the wizard had seen many of them pushing here and there, riding winds. Looking at the tiny bird it became apparent. The Titmouse would know no wrinkles, Alex Santiago said in reply, "I know each and every one of them and with each line there is a story."

"I thought as much. We watch you. You know that don't you? Our light and hollow bones make it easy for us to flitter. We remember some of what we see, but mostly we have to come back and look again. We don't have much space for wrinkles." The tiny face and eyes seemed to blink. But I may be tossing my thinking onto its. "To know those wrinkles as well as you do must mean you are ... very attached to them," the bird concluded.

Alex enjoyed these encounters best of all; birds were a wonderful source of honesty. Rubbing his face the wizard traveled the indentations and saw the old barn, and the sign that hung across the weathered face of his former life as welder. The boy had done great things with their partnership. Smiling to himself Alex thought to feel again, this time the face was etched with laugh lines. As he slowly relaxed the lines smoothed though they were still there, he could feel them, his near timeless face wore laughter differently. Dani is one of those who can see the mostly invisible roads as clearly as any other. She sees me just as clearly. This time the wizard was laughing out loud, sending the Titmouse and her companions scattering. He wasn't expected, but most of his visits were spontaneous rather than planned.  Alex craved a bite of shortbread and ... he stopped mid-thought as the image of his beautiful wife rippled across his face. The gift must have arrived. Wool and dog-hair socks. Laughing aloud once again, Alex counted the blessings again. How many years had they been together? Nearly twenty. And, he was more than ninety-five years by calendar time. He was the wizard but it was his wife who could tag weather in advance with the accuracy any book-maker would put money on. How many blessings was that?

The long summer had moved into a soggy near cold late October. Dani wouldn't wait to open her mother's package. It was Thursday, a work night. Still. The socks would tempt her. The weather conspired. From his perch in the maple behind D-Square Alex Santiago could see the brown paper wrapping opened on Dani's coffee table. The dark roasted Kona beans were already in the grinder. He listened to the sharp whirl and the tamp on the grinder lid as the dusty beans settled into the espresso maker. Seeing his step-daughter in her zone of comfort this way, the wizard decided he'd wait. To see her this way was enough for now. She did not need meddling, not just yet. With a zip of his coat, he was gone.

Dear Ma, I LOVE THEM! Your needles have been busy. So deft! Is that what keeps you flexible rather than brittle, and warm at heart in spite of all that rubbish and rhetoric about being old? I love that you mixed the wool with the dog hair. Yes, I can feel the difference, someone taught me to notice things like that. I love that they are big and floppy and if I tug them, up they reach. Up and over my knees. I'm tucking into my cozy chenille robe about to slide into those Birki's and will be out the door to feed the chickens who don't have a Ma to knit them floppy socks. The dark Kona roast is bitter and rich, the perfect top-it-off gift for the near-snow white knit.

Thank you my love you are the perfect fit!

Dani

 

Before she finished the second cup of devilishly rich espresso, Dani pushed SEND on her laptop, found her robe and slipped into the navy blue Birkenstocks. The chickens expected a treat before settling into the tractor Dani moved around her backyard. She counted her blessings. How many was that?

Mix-Master

Dani DeSilva had a great memory and an even grander facility for possibilities. She loved piecing images, faces, bits of conversation, a line from the novel she was savoring. Pinning. Loosely held together not permanent. The winds were particularly attentive to this one's broad application of spinning webs. Her artful way of seeing through the lens of her grandmother's camera left plenty of room for what they added were the dreams often missed, or forgotten. But really it was the woman who was the Mix-Master and this was her season. The winds and the weather were still warm for late October. Both had watched and listened as Dani applied the potential to the rich only great-grandson of sugar barons. She didn't have that information, yet. What she did have was the sense of something not yet right.

"Every thing is sacrified, at some point," The wind was not being rhetorical, but as the stand of maples released their leaves into a tumble and glide of orange and gold it was a shiver that reckoned the truth of the comment.

"Easy for him to say. Always on the move, no idea what a rooted life entails." There was no malice in the maple's observation. Rooted was what she knew and life on this planet had given her many memories. Wind played a part in those memories. They brought news. They tickled the tips of limbs, danced often with the limbs of the old ones, cautioned them with the gossip. The book of tree-skins the rich boy carried would stir things in him. The young woman had flipped a switch. The winds and the weather would keep talking about things. And when the trees talked it was an invitation that beckoned to those schooled in hearing. The maples behind D-Square were part of a city block that still lived with old maples along the sloping bank the climbed to the streets behind it. So the invitations were more frequently heard and accepted as quality conversations. A long-standing pact among the resident humans made it an All-Species Friendly Neighborhood. In fact, Maple Head was the global heart for ASFN a grassroots movement with its beginnings nearly as old as the photographer.

The city was not her first choice for home, but it worked well as a conduit of foot traffic for her business spurred by the funky mix -- tough and savvy small businesses -- that hung in there in spite of the odds against them. The International District, once simply China Town was home to Pho and Kim Pop as well as the famously infamous Golden Dragon Restaurant. Famous for its duck and infamous for the hell's kitchen law that still ruled the Black Market. Dani liked the fit she had in her neighborhood. Languages flavored her everyday, and because of it the people who sought her out came with many stories some long and consistent, others fractured like broken glass. But most were a still forming, or melting from one old to new or new to old. Tonight the only story Dani wanted was the one that began with her sister's palm. Family and a favorite meal from small kid time was  comforting. The thing going on with Mr. Sweet was more than a little disturbing, but she had no wish to ease the feeling. She felt the tentacles of creative tension knotting just behind her piko. Birthing pains baby. Her grandmother was always talking to her, and Tutu was never wrong. Dani instinctively rubbed her belly. The simple and complex connections between the concrete on one side and the worlds just above the Earth's atmosphere were lay lines Dani saw and heard as clearly, if not more so, than directions on the back of a cake mix or a message on her phone. Noticing the star in Olivia's palm surprised her. Was that the birthing pain her grandmother was pointing at?