Hazy Ghostly Morning in June πŸ‘’ | Perforated Lines
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⚑ June 18, 2017

Hazy Ghostly Morning in June πŸ‘’

These are not my beautiful clothes.

These are not my beautiful clothes.

It’s been a really long time between posts, because I have been busy. It’s mentally challenging to turn 70, trying to keep the gratitude table set because I know how lucky I am to have reached this milestone … while at the same time … there is a gnawing panic that can easily overwhelm a less robust personality than mine. For every ache or pain, there is a commensurate rose-gold sunrise or a sudden cupcake in your lunch.

I have been working doggedly to get my novel and little Vietnam memoir in good shape so I can really start to advertise them and try to get people to read them. I am pretty pleased with the Cleaning House website, so that’s a start.

The day is a steamy jungle green, with the sun hazed over. There is a dress gollum in the dining room, coming to life as the sun is coming up. How did this happen? Well, first of all, I believe that my witch research for a novel has actually taken hold of my psyche, or maybe I come from a family of weirdos, for which, again, I am eternally grateful. My brother brought me a big heavy black garbage bag of an old lady’s clothes. Because that’s what he does.

The lady herself was extremely tiny, and oddly, the careful bag had several one-each shoes at the top. Nothing is more useless, I guess, than unmatched shoes, used or new. big or small. No one that I know of will wear two different shoes. Maybe one day.

So, I threw those shoes away because there was nothing else to be done. Then, I carefully examined, one by one, each item of used clothing, wondering whether she wore this dress to a fancy dinner at a restaurant, or the salmon pedal-pushers as she toured a street faire? Who knows. But there they are – a stranger’s slice of life, draped out of the corner of my eye and demanding a moment of silence. Or else.

There is a very formal nightgown, silky and sharply creased from folding that seems to be moving slightly when I look away. There is much that is turquoise in the collection; all is poly, which never feels warm. There is one hang-tag slashing an unrealistic price on an office-type outfit. The squeamish should know that there really isn’t any scent or bugs in the pile, and I will wash everything, anyway, before I attempt any creativity.

The little lady of the clothing was frail, and now she’s no more. The gollum of old age is draped across my dining-room table, and I am wary. πŸ”