Of Words And Swords And Chicken's Milk

'Gronmere,' Little Granddaughter says. [Transitioning the name previously spoken as Nam-ma.] 'My flowers are getting Very Big in the [a pause here: aware of the word 'polytunnel' uncertain how to turn it to sound] shed. Very Big.'
'Yes.' Gronmere is blowing up a balloon, the sort that can be folded into symbolic shapes. 'What shall we make?' [Expects the answer 'a flower.']
'Milk for a chicken.'
'Milk for a chicken? Made from a balloon?'
'Yes.' [Laughs, as though Gronmere's puzzlement is surely faked for her amusement.]
Outside, a continent of cloud drifts by. Rain flattened grass eases vertical. The lawn hops with happy blackbirds. Leaves of the iris wave, spear straight.
'Sword fight?' Gronmere suggests.



Comments

The Cranky said…
I truly enjoy the vicarious experience of Gronmere-hood through your writing.
Lisa Southard said…
Thank you Jacqueline: it is a joyful thing to share!
Milk for a chicken in balloon form - well, of course! I think all children are surrealists at heart.

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