Mas jugo, por favor

I reminisce about the smallest things sometimes.

Yesterday, I made breakfast for Karen since it was her first day off in quite a while. It wasn’t anything spectacular, just a warm bowl of maple-sugar oatmeal, some cinnamon toast, a juice-glass of grape juice (she likes it), and a juice glass of chocolate milk. I had it all laid out on the dining room table on a gold-colored place mat which lie adjacent to my own on which was my bowl of Cheerios and some cinnamon toast. I drank coffee.

As I was preparing the whole thing, I got to thinking about how Karen laughs at some of the necessary food combinations I make. By “necessary” I mean that it is imperative to me that certain foods be served together. I can’t fathom fish sticks without macaroni and cheese. It’s like shoes and socks to me; there’s no point in separating them, it’ll just give you blisters. I don’t understand pizza without chips and cheese dip. I know it’s a mixture of cultural cuisines, but it still makes all kinds of sense to me. Grilled cheese sandwiches have been married to bowls of tomato soup for longer than I’ve been living. Oreos need milk. Ice cream is unbearable without a cup of water. These things just go together for me.

I was smiling yesterday morning because I couldn’t grasp a lone juice glass on a breakfast spread. Mom always had two for us (my brother and me). I figure it was a plot to get us to drink at least one of the liquids set before us because I do remember a stipulation of going through one to get to another, or not being able to vacate the premises until both glasses’ contents were emptied of all but backwash.

Karen didn’t say anything about my having provided her with two drinks. In fact, she guzzled them both and appreciated my loving, ante meridiem gesture. Either way, however, I remembered and smiled.

It’s funny how your mind can be therapy enough; especially with a great family.

Barbarian Arbors

Fall is blowing in now.

Leaves fall.

I pray.

One particular season may not manifest itself as the finest ever experienced, but it has to have its time. It has to do what it does. Then it will leave and another will replace it. And it’s in the midst of the change that the natural skirmish renders man helpless to its effects. Hopeless for any chance to reverse its effects and become what it once was. It’ll have its chance again next year.

Under this hickory, I can hear the wind whisper where it’s been. I never hear it say where it’s going. Mindless gibberish filled with erratic fluctuations in pitch fill the air as the branches interpret what I never could have heard without them. And, I wait.

I wait to hear if the wind ever speaks of me.

My questions are many and people have been no help. Surely in this ever-repeating cycle the wind has learned something or seen another like me.

So, I listen.

Nothing.

It probably couldn’t have known the difference between cheeks like mine and mine. I’m troubled by things that do not torment the wind.