Thank George and Ruth

She dashes across the yard, a bright yellow dot amid the fading greens and browns of the garden. Her heavy boots plod on the hardened ground as she bounces into this familiar terrain. Toothy grin and her favorite lonely blue shovel in hand, Mimi stops only when she's found the beginnings of her hole from the day before. She'd had barely enough time to begin what would be her greatest adventure to China, like Bugs Bunny she plans to go straight through the middle of the planet, when she had been called into the house for dinner. Intent on making significant progress today, Mimi sets her face in what she believes to be a stern look of determination; the closest imitation she can muster of the look her Grandmother gives when her Grandfather falls asleep in his easy chair watching television.

As Mimi carefully removes her fireman yellow rain coat, she catches a glimpse of her Grandfather ambling across the lawn to meet her.

"So. China. Do you need help getting there?"
"No." She replies, firm grimace in place.
"Are you sure?" He asks.
"Well, I think maybe I need some supplies. But the hole has to get bigger first."
"Can I dig a little? I've never been to China. I'd like to see."
Mimi crosses her arms and looks at her Grandfather thoughtfully.
"Are you going to bring supplies if you come?"
"Of course. I'll even bring the cookies Grandmomma is baking right now."
"Cookies?"
"With sprinkles." He nods.
"Okay. Only cause there are sprinkles." She says and hands him the shovel.

Together, they put on their most determined faces and begin their bitter toil against the earth to China. At least until the bell on the oven goes off.

C'est Possible?

Apologies for I have been remiss in posting in the last few days. Though I would love to bring you all an enjoyable article of some kind, I haven't had the opportunity to dig up something fresh and fun.

Instead of an article, I'll venture into as of yet untouched territory, and give you a tiny sketch I've been ruminating on. It's not much, but I suppose it's a step in the "right" direction.
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She woke without fail each night at 1 a.m. Her eyes would slowly flutter open to her husband's low, steady snore echoing through the room, and as he droned on Ellen would drop her legs to the floor and gently extract herself from the familiar nook on the bed. She would stealthily plod her way out the door, down the carpeted hallway, past the room where her sons clutched their flashlights and books beneath the sheets, and find her way into the kitchen. From the cupboard beneath the sink, she would draw out a small rusty-hinged lacquered box and place it on the kitchen counter. Ellen was always careful not to let out a sigh, or even a harsh breath, as she had once let out a cry into the darkened house that caused her husband to rush down the stairs.

Instead, she would keep her lips pursed while she mechanically opened the box's lid and removed a half burned candle and a small Bic lighter, leaving the photograph behind. Ellen would adeptly flick the lighter twice: once for her, and once for him, then touch the flame to the candle's wick. As the light would crawl its way across the counter, Ellen's lips would relax and the familiar calm of a moment reserved just for her and the photograph lying within the box embraced her. For fifteen minutes after the second flick of the lighter, Ellen would stand at the counter's edge in her worn cotton nightgown, her hand placed palm down atop the box.

At 1:18am, she would puff out the candle and deftly place it back in the box next to the lighter and photograph. Then, as quietly and surely as a thick fog rolls over the hills, she would reverse each step until she found herself nestled into her nook, eyelids closing to the gentle rumble of her husband's snore.

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Hmm, ah well. It will have to do for now.