Chalk Kisses And The Zen Of Sticks
Rain nestles on the window pane. Grandchild 2 sits on the other office chair, eating peanut butter from a small jar. She laughs at the waggle in birds’ tails as starlings hop on the ash branches. They are silhouette puppets to her. Steampunk cloud sails in on a quickening squall. Starlings are sprung to flight. We watch. On the storm scale from eye-opening to life-threatening, this measures at come-to-the-beach. Weary faces in the town, a hard night spent midwifing the New Year. Without their ritualising, perhaps it would breech, fail to arrive. We had watched Lilo and Stitch, drunk up some vodka with coconut milk, called to our year all our love for it. An easy beginning. A mother, her daughter, her daughter’s daughter, they blink in the sanded wind, shut the car doors. Dog gets underfoot, too impatient. On the sand Dog squats, too excited. Everyone is happy now for the gale to blow, salt scented. Granma carries the bag up to the bin. Mess is not a surprise: but r