On the lookout ©Laura T. Ryan

Anticipation curls
its tendrils around
my abdomen like morning
glory vines twisting up
the trellis
Soon, starshine
on the water
& circular promises in
the sand
But, first, the snap
and pop of campfire,
the ppfffssst of bottlecaps,
the susurrus of
lakeside laughter.

Tried. Couldn’t.

Sorry.

What can I say? I’m a curmudgeonly stick in the mud.

And so it’s back to the old design we go.

And that shouldn’t surprise me, really, considering I blanch at the merest mention of a remake. The Grinch as a live-action character inhabited by Jim Carrey? Tish tosh. A Horton whose Whos have been rewritten? Blasphemy. Jack Sparrow (or was that Carol Channing) as Willa Wonka? Strike that, reverse it.

But I digress.

Thoughts? Opinions?

What shall it be for the Rooftop... old or new?

Sweet summer © Laura T. Ryan

Summer Song
by William Carlos Williams

Wanderer moon
smiling a
faintly ironical smile
at this
brilliant, dew-moistened
summer morning,—
a detached
sleepily indifferent
smile, a
wanderer’s smile,—
if I should
buy a shirt
your color and
put on a necktie
sky-blue
where would they carry me?

Wondering how the bug bites on my butt and upper thighs (well above the hem of my shorts) happened. Either a mosquito had a party in my pants or his stinger was sturdy enough to puncture my khaki. Either prospect disturbs me. And I haven’t even begun to contemplate the logistics required for the red welt between two knuckles on my left hand.

If you plan to never use the machinery, cramps just seem cruel. 

It’s awesome you can still find and nurture friendships in the fifth decade of your life.

Sometimes it’s a playlist. Sometimes it’s a soundtrack for a series of life-altering moments.

Panic hasn’t arrived yet. But I can hear it growling.

Doolin’s Lament

No scampering today

in the too tall grass

No hunkering beneath the bird bath

whiskers a’twitch

Just this narrow perch of

warped, damp wood

and dreams of a dry tomorrow

Senses are on my mind today. Have been since a friend stopped by and swatted an enormous black, winged bug off my shin. “Didn’t you feel that?” she asked incredulously. I didn’t. Not even a little bit. Maybe the bug had a light touch, but more likely the sensation in my skin was dulled just enough to grant the insect a field day.

Another something to see on today's walk.

Most days, I don’t pay much attention to the numbness. It comes and goes and, honestly, what’s to notice? It doesn’t hurt. It is, in fact, the opposite of pain. But then there are those mornings when I double-check to see if there’s a razor in the shaver, because I don’t feel that familiar, gentle scrape as it glides up my leg.

Or a bug lands on me, and I’m none the wiser.

Every so often, I’m foolish enough to let my mind stumble into the dark place, filled with all the questions nobody wants to ask: Will the numbness ever get so bad that I ignore a serious injury? How long before tingling and numbness give way to pain? Will we ever need to live in a house with ramps?

The questions hovered as Roxy and I climbed the hill up to Woodland Reservoir this morning. But by the time we crested that hill, and the sunlight glanced off the water and into our faces, they’d all but evaporated. I surrendered to the full spectrum of my senses up there, as the music swelled in my earbuds, a cool, eastern breeze buffeted us and the brilliant water shimmered. 

Nothing can dull it all.

Things are much better here now, beside the oscillating fan. I figure I’ll move from this spot for meals and potty breaks. Period.

Me no likey heat waves.

Anyway. Might as well make the most of my inaction by catching up with the blog. Sorry to say the Rooftop has sat dormant for… yikes… more than a month now. Don’t really have a compelling excuse, other than the march of life. I had two trips down to NYC in two weeks, one for a freelancing job and the other to take my mother to a doctor’s appointment. Mom and I were not only braced for cataclysmic news, we expected it. And so, when the doctor swept into the room with the opposite — what? good news?!? — the two of us practically tumbled out of our chairs. Whew!

A few weeks earlier, Cab and I sat through a similar nail-biter in my neurologist’s office, as we waited (and waited and waited) for the results of my latest MRI. And, as with Mom, the news was welcome. No new mutiny within. A girl could get used to this sort of trend. 

I should be bobbing along on an inflatable raft of optimism now. I know it. But somewhere along the way, I sprung a leak. My raft got snagged on a low-hanging branch of self-doubt or self-recrimination or something, and my confidence has deflated. Halfway through the fiction program, and I still feel like a big fat fraud, adrift and rudderless. I know crises of confidence come with the territory, but that doesn’t make it any easier to live through.

And so… as the mercury rises and the fans spin, I’m retreating from the outside world today and turning inward, with the hope of finding a bit of the faith I guess I lost. And maybe some duct tape for that raft.

“Marriage is our last, best chance to grow up.” ~ Joseph Barth

I want to be just like our friends Michelle and Melissa when I grow up. And here’s the song I’m humming as the sun rises on their big day.

Congratulations, girls!