daily

by

Time

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When I think of aging. Of age. Of the number of years in which I have opened my eyes each morning, it seems but just a brief moment. As if all my life could be catalogued before I even blink my eyes. Well, okay, not blink my eyes. But hold them closed long enough to indulge in a quick game of hide in seek. Which is what time really is after all, a game of hide and seek.

When I was a child of around four years old, I remember laying outside on a big blanket and looking up at the stars. I remember feeling weary. I remember this profound thought ran through my head. “This is my last time here. I am so tired. So old. I cannot do this again.”

That same year, it felt as though each morning I would wake up and it would feel as if all of the things that had happened the day before to me had actually happened to someone else. It was my young mind trying to grasp the definition of a memory. So, each night I would lay in my bed and I would say to myself, “Good night, Jenni. I’ll miss you. You’ll be a new Jenni in the morning.”

I can see your face.

It looks like my husband’s face when I told him my little saying. To paraphrase my husband, “that is the creepiest thing I have ever heard.”

But I think my child self had it right. We are all just made up of the memories we have made. And each day, a new one is added to the mixture in our heads. It makes sense to me that we are ever evolving. Ever changing. And each morning when we wake up, we are a slightly different person than the day before.

Time touches us all.

It is shown in the new lines on our faces. The spots on our hands. The inches added and then deducted to our height. The length of our hair.

Yes.

Four year old Jenni had it right in her very slightly neurotic view of time.

And thirty six year old Jenni has to smile at that.

Well, that, and how much fun it is to sometimes say out loud.

In the dark.

While my husband is just shutting his eyes.

“Good night Jenni. I’ll miss you. You’ll be a new Jenni in the morning.”

And maybe I’ll say it like a small child.

And maybe in a high pitched whisper.

And then I will shut my eyes and go to sleep.

Smiling.

Because I know my husband is laying in the dark. Eyes wide open.

Having the time of his life.

At least that’s what the old Jenni told me.

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* This post was written in response to the Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge, “Golden Years.”

by

Snail Trails

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I was expecting a package today and as I walked towards our mail box, I studied the sidewalk along the way. The military-haircut styling of the green grass along every lawn upon our block looked stiff and cold. Our neighbor to our left was bold with their trim. Leaving their grass a slight one inch longer than the rest. Rebels. I had to wonder if this was all for show. If all of the front yards along the street were cut short and close, while their backyards were left wild and free. Were my neighbors’ rear lawns, hidden behind their matching painted trim, sporting dueling grassy mullets? What devious personalities were they hiding amidst the green turf behind the fence?

Glistening spiral trails shot from the edge of the sharp grassy line onto the hard grey cement. It looked as though a miniature motorcycle had been doing wheelies along the ground. Perhaps it had escaped from the party in the backyard.

Some trails ended in bits of debris. Small crumbling brown pieces of what had once been an organic house lay littered in front of my feet. I realized that even if I tried to put each fragment back together, there would always be a piece of the puzzle I would be unable to recreate. As enchanting as a line of slime, its inhabitant was missing.

Following the sidewalk to the mailbox, I noticed that some of the snail trails ended abruptly. There was no sign as to what had become of their creators. Just a glittery line and then nothing. I knew if I scanned the skies, I would find the answer.

The sun hit the spellbinding iridescent streams making them shimmer and wink. I carefully stepped around the lines and crushed tragic rubble. I dare not disturb nature’s original painting.

What was left of the artists would not be pleased.

Who knew snails could do magic?

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* This post was written in response to The Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge: Snapshots. The task this week was to create a picture using only words. I realize I cheated a bit by adding a photo, but my daughter’s painting from a few years ago fit this post so perfectly, I could not resist using it. However, I did not take a picture of the actual beautiful snail trails (as much as I wanted to). Thank you for indulging me!

by

Operation Spider Rescue

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“I just about had a heart attack!”

My husband came running into the room panting. He began rummaging around our dresser. Papers were being tossed about. He was frantic.

“What happened?” I was not worried. This pretty much happens every time my husband goes outside. He is quite the adventurer.

I could guess it would have something to do with spiders. It has been our obsession for the last three weeks. We have had an unfortunate infestation of brown widows in our backyard. They have made every crevice under every piece of our furniture their luxurious breeding ground.

My husband had gone outside to try to remove more webs. The exterminator was coming to spray for the third time (this month) everything down with a delightful mix of poison which seems to do nothing except make the ground wet for five minutes.

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“There is the biggest green spider on the fence! I thought it was a praying mantis. So, I went to pick it up. But right when I almost touched it, I realized it was a spider!”

He paused here to catch his breath. Then he exclaimed excitedly, “I’ve got to get a picture of it!”

He grabbed the camera from his bedside (don’t ask) and dashed outside. Not one to miss seeing a creature in my yard (or a funny story in case it jumped on him), I followed.

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It was a magnificent spider. One of its legs was missing. I could only hope this was a war wound from a victorious battle it had had with a brown widow.

After my husband finished taking pictures, I looked at him.

“The exterminator is coming!” I proclaimed in my best voice of panic. To which I seem silly. I guess I am a hypocrite killing one species and wanting to protect another. But this green spider couldn’t land my family in the hospital.

We looked at the beautiful spider and pondered our next move.

“Well, you’re just gonna have to move it.” I said.

My husband did not seem pleased. But he realized it was what he had to do. That is his role in this household, designated spider mover. He has had plenty of practice with the daddy long legs we keep all over the house. My role is to scream, wring my hands, and give unhelpful advice.

I am available for hire.

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My husband finished taking his pictures and delicately moved the spider (which we later looked up and realized was a Green Lynx Spider) to the trees behind our house.

“With his hands?” You ask.

Oh no. That would be taking this little grand sad adventure too far. On a stick. The spider was moved on a stick.

A very long stick.

We spent the entire day waiting for the exterminator to arrive so we could ask him not to spray the trees and watch to make sure this was actually carried out. Yes, we wasted spent the entire day protecting this one spider.

Again, available for hire.

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My husband just loves nature.

As for me, I am sitting here watching the wet ground where the exterminator has just sprayed. It is drying.

I swear I can hear a web being made.

My husband is very excited.

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* I shared this on The Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge: Dialogue.