Spring has been disorienting my winter eyes, overwhelming sensors that have been calibrated to bare, brown and dark. I rummage through my kit for filters. Dark ones. Lenscap dark.
It was easy to identify with fall and winter. I merely have to look at my dry, bony hands and graying hair to feel an affinity with bare thickets and brown grass. It's almost companionable: the world and myself rocking side by side on the porch of the Home. Reminiscing about the good old days. Waiting for our final gentleman caller, the estimable bachelor Mr. G. Reaper, to arrive.
But then, suddenly, my old friend transforms. Nights, she stays out late. She plumps and smooths, fattens and glows. She swaps her drab housecoats for designer dresses. Her voice takes on a flirtatious edge. Is that make-up she's wearing ? And those shoes, those fuck-me pumps -- are they Manolos ?
No, no, no, that won't do. Must revise. OK. Gray and drab. Side by side. Porch of Home. Rocking, reminiscing, waiting.
But then, suddenly my old friend transforms. Turns to me, her eyes wild and glowing.
"My, my," I comment. "How glittering and gay your eyes are, my dear."
She looks back at me, annoyed, impatient, exasperated, almost angry.
"What you see in my eyes and so erroneously call glittering gaiety, a merely aesthetic fire, is something far better, far purer. It is visionary hope, a reflection of the refiners fire upon which I have gazed and been reborn ! And, by the way, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior ?"
"If the Christian liturgical year is a racetrack," I reply, " I always manage to drive my car off the road somewhere between Good Friday and Easter Sunday."
"Crash and burn in Hell," she mutters, shuffling away.
Aw, man. That won't do, either. Try again. OK -- Two crones, rocking, porch, Home. Yadda yadda.
"All blossoms fall from the branch," she whispers,
"and all branches fall to the earth."
"Blossom, branches, earth," I whisper back.
"The eyelid opens. Shuts."