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One someone sees
For tapping conversations.
When faith is too much string.
I have a bigger tally-whacker than a Pulitzer Prize wining author. I should know: I have his pajamas. I didn’t steal them. I found them, last Summer at the New Orleans Radisson.
In the bureau, I find these pajamas, cotton with blue fish. Next morning, the maid thinks they’re the previous guest’s, some poet who’d just won the Pulitzer. I say so, and what’s with these pajamas ? She says who cares, keep them. So I do, but believe me, I launder them first. These days who can be too careful?
So, I take to wearing the old pajamas. What can I say, they feel terrific. Right waist size and inseam, except for the aforementioned fly area. I never thought myself well-endowed, but when it comes to heavy equipment, I got this guy beat. Continue reading
She believes she believes in dreams. She knows they’re real, but she knows they can’t come true. Her dead husband, Mr. Cass, taught her that dreams were best forgotten, traded in for a cast iron skillet or a pound of bacon. Now, just a month after he died, Mr. Cass seemed like maybe he was a dream, one that had picked her up like a roadside stray thirty years before. This Tennessee farm life was not what she’d dreamt of back on the reservation. Maybe she’d forgotten her dreams, misplaced them somewhere. Maybe they were like the reflection she saw tonight and every night in the kitchen window when she was washing dishes–an image that faded when she got too close.
After she’d eaten enough baked potpie and had wrapped the rest in foil, she filled one sink with hot suds, the other with cold rinse water. She leaned over the chipped porcelain sink to work, her flat belly pressed against the counter. A dreamcatcher, a circle of hickory webbed with cat-gut, hung in her kitchen window. Her granny had made the dreamcatcher to save good dreams and make bad ones go away. Continue reading