The World is Broke-.

Here, hold for me this n missing from the title above.

The earth keeps having room to have more bodies buried. Our lawns are too needy and like a cat, need constant pampering. The ozone has gone from unhappy to being a grouchy grump. Them trees don't take deep breaths anymore like the used to. If you are lucky, you will catch a glimpse of clear blue skies beyond clouds of smoke and highrise buildings that keep sprouting with every sunrise. The parking lot you parked your car marinating in the sun yesterday is today, a forty floor all glass high-rise that has every single space in it purchased or rented before it's even habitable. For the umpteenth time, it sinks in your head how owning a car is such a liability in this city suffering from car park deficiency.

A world of people always in motion. Point A to point B is characterized by a maze of roads that attempt to interlink with each other with occasional physically challenged beggars being the new landmarks.  A complicated maze and overcrowded by people in constant motion - zombies uncertain of their decision but nursing an inner urge to keep moving. Keep shoving. Keep elbowing your way through the bland motions that life currently boasts. Blank eyes. Scars that appear to be healing but otherwise covering live feeding gangrene underneath. What make up does not hide, we dab on copious amounts of expensive perfume to hide the reeking of the wounds we carry with us because nothing like designer reek.  If that fails, we flash the only card we clench in our tired sweaty palms: a smile that falls short of reaching the eyes.


And that is exactly how she looked like when we sat down to have coffee. On a normal day, her eyes bore holes and have a heartbeat of their own you could almost see the pupils throb with life. But today, her eyes defy proper manners - looking into someone's eyes when speaking to them. They keep darting back and forth half dead, half desperate. Her height, a normal intimidation for me seems to have shrunk a good four inches into the stoop she's poised.. Even though the hangout we are right now does not play music - the tvs are on but muted - she speaks but I have to lean extra forward, half my dreadlocks get into the sugar dish. A blind person sitted at a table next to us would have thought I'm confessing to a heard o' hearing priest by the way I kept going pardon. The demon denying her peace must have been the unforgiving type and seemed to have been clenching her belly by the manacle-full. She orders her coffee and I order a soda that I hate, Bitter Lemon. Nothing puts my patience and salivary glands to test like Krest. And the wait begins. She gathers the little strength she had saved to get here here and with no respect to punctuations, she spits without breathing:

.. I think I'm pregnant and don't know what to do..momentary lapse of reason..the brother in the picture seems to be cropping himself off the picture since I told him the news and seems very busy all of a sudden. Dad's health is hanging by a thread so I can't tell him. I'm in church ministry and then there is our friends and family. I don't what to do and where to start or what to think and how to go about it if it comes to that..

For the first time she looks into my eyes. I look at my now empty bottle of Krest, marking a personal best of downing it under 2 minutes flat. She always wears her hair in this cute little bob that agrees with the shape of her head and that her hair comes in one shade of jet black almost has her towering an extra inch. Looking at her sitting across the table all smart casual with something from Nivea wafting off her direction I can't help think the lengths we go to appear under control on the outside while the inside is all hurricane.


My phone buzzes an incoming text. A different bender, just got word from his doctor that a surgery he underwent twelve years ago was actually botched and now he has this heart condition. He's supposed to go under the knife as soon as yesterday. He doesn't want surgery because if the last one was botched what was the guarantee they'd fix his new symptoms now. Besides, not being a tax payer yet, an absentee father who has held more monologues with brown bottles than hold conversations with his son wasn't helping. I ask his whereabouts and tells me he's perched up in a bar, at 11am, and he's just ordered some drink he saw in a biker gang  series. One of those poisons whose name is a mouthful and does not guarantee staggering or blurring of speech. Never mind that the closest the chap ever came to alcohol is in a chemical equation in a Chemistry class. Remember Carbon Dating?  I quickly text him that I'll look him up after I'm done with my crisis meeting.


A couple walks in and sit at the far corner where I am always perched up whenever I'm in the restaurant but decided to forgo today. They look young and were it not for the matching wedding bands, they'd pass off as siblings. The guy has two hairlines - the one nearer the center of his head must be a recent acquisition. The lady looks fresh out of child birth because her small frame disagrees with a suggestive tummy and the way she slumps strongly on that seat, there is no way she would be carrying a baby in her womb. For an instant, I wish I read minds. His tired jeans and her unkempt hair that seems to have sat all through the local series of Better Days and half of The Bold and The Beautiful, suggest that they are not here for a date. They are edgy and do not speak a word to each other. Fidgeting with the menu, he softly asks whether she was hungry and she raps angrily at him if that's how he talks to her. She spat the her with such contempt unfit for a human being reference and perhaps a few cows. Maybe he had a pet dog he loved spending time with or he bought a new car he thought was the lady with all their savings. Or maybe a new cow. The waiter stood there uncertain whether to walk away or just wait. I was glad I wasn't the waiter nor the coffee table they rested their elbows. Nothing gives like a bovine scorned.

Some cutlery fall at the other side of the restaurant brings me back from my visual trip to my table. I stare my company whose eyes been following mine all along. She quickly stares down at the fading nail polish on her fingernails that from where I sit, look like small islands. She wants answers and I come short of telling her I'm not Google. She wants solutions and I almost tell her that I'm not Jesus. I don't even have a child of my own and I'm couple of years younger than she is. But no room today for such these glib remarks or attempted pun. The waiter, a walking cane in tow, hobbles to our table, clumsily tears off the receipt and hands me my bill. The torn receipt, a candid reminder how life is damned and can't get a thing straight. His handwriting is neat and makes up for his clumsiness. Quick apologies and he hobbles off to another table.

        Do I abort? I don't want to bring a child in a world where the father seems to be ashamed of.

The clinging of cutlery in the restaurant play at the background where these words hung. Knife meeting China. Fork driven a little too hard in someone's pastry. Cup and Saucer. A vigorously shaken salt shaker somewhere adds salt to injury. Something is poured into something hollow adds to an already busy symphony. In an offbeat, furniture grates roughly on the wooden floor as customers ease out of chairs exiting or visiting the establishment. Knife meets china again. The rains outside drumming through the cacophony as the main beat. The word, abortion, suspends effortlessly in the air. My tongue, long since stuck at the roof of my mouth with insufficient answers.

May be I should keep the baby. Too much grief to go through another loss. Besides where I used to have a heart is a pitch black hollow that looks like designer death and baby's heart might just beat enough for two, no? In a scale of one to utter folly, how ambitious do I sound?

My phone buzzes once. My chap friend about to defile his system with alcohol left the bar he sat. These fools must have conspired with God and delayed my order but I've left the payment in full and left for home. Talk later.

 The rains outside has let up

 Yep. I'll keep the baby. But under one condition. I equal her stare. Daring her to suggest I adopt the child or something more ridiculous. Like tag the brother in all her pregnancy photos. Nothing like a bovine scorned remember?

I'll keep the baby if you promise to hold my hand through it. Deal?

For the first time since sunup, a shy ray of the sun split past the heavy clouds through the mist, insisting once again that life is possible in a wretched world.

I order another chilled Krest.

Today, I Choose.

Today I choose Love

I will not mind the scars – I will stop complaining about them. I will love my friends but will love my enemies the more – they badly need it. Learning to love some aspects of self will be a continuous work in progress until Christ comes again, but I will keep doing so anyway. I will not sound the retort dancing on my tongue when the commute conductor declines to give me my change. I will not cringe on the inside every time a cuss word is thrown my way whether in a conversation or if it was meant to be an insult. After all, we love because He first loved us; so I do best to follow suit and love.

Today I choose Joy

I will marvel at the tickling status message posted by both friend and foe. I will giggle alongside a passenger’s baby that sits on her mother’s lap and is enthused by my bobbin dreadlocks every time we hit a bump. I will take a minute and get caught by the smell of freshly mowed grass across campus right through the window. Being joyful doesn’t mean everything in your life is working out at last – it means that despite it all, life doesn’t revolve on such moments. Comedy is finding something to laugh outta a hard situation for it makes it less challenging, less domineering. As long as it is called Today, the joy of the Lord shall be my strength.

Today I choose Peace

My desktop has a blue background – blue is serene. I find it so. I will choose to seek the calm in a storm coz I know it’s there – I believe there is something good outta something not so good. Clouds give us shade from the scorching heat; clouds on a stormy day keep the clothes on otherwise thunder-stricken skies. I will choose peace and pursue it. Because He keeps them in perfect peace whose heart is stayed on Him because he trusts in Him.

Courtesy

I choose Patience today.

I will be patient with my friends and I will be patient with my foes. I will be patient when my text messages and emails aren’t replied to as fast as I hope. I will not be hard on myself. I won’t give myself deadlines I cannot achieve. I will have SMART goals – Specific Measurable Accessible Realistic and Time-conscious goals. I will be patient when God doesn’t answer my prayers by noon or today for that matter (cringe). And when the day is done in another ten hours or so, am going to lay down my head to sleep for the Lord grant sleep to His beloved (did I say I choose love?).

I choose to be Kind

Apologies for sounding selfish but first I will be kind to myself. Only then can I be kind to other people. I haven’t been kind to myself for a long time. Kindness pays but I will not charge for it. I will not tell a foul mouthed joke just for laughs. Heck, I won't speak foul. I will be generous with an encouraging word here and a cheerful pat on the back there. I won’t be kind by deed only but it shall surely show in my eyes.

I choose Goodness.

I will go without sleep for the late night caller who Is stuck somewhere between the altar and the door. The spare coin in my pockets will go to the hawker out here for four lollipops to give to the street kids I am sure I will find two junctions from here. I choose goodness.

I choose Faithfulness.

God is faithful even when am faithless. Because He cannot deny Himself. So since He remains faithful, today I choose to strife to be faithful – before man and before God. I will be faithful to confess my sins to a friend and share my weaknesses with another. Who knows, my faithfulness might bring a brother or two to Christ. For this only, I shall be faithful to keep my word - faithful to small goals and big. Faithful to timelines and procedures.

I choose to be Gentle.

We are called in The Beatitude to be Meek. I will pursue meekness today. However don’t take my gentleness for weakness for I choose to be gentle in a strong way; I will be meek in a firm way. I won’t force my way through things and through people. In fact I won’t use any force today!

I choose Self-control

I will not say everything that crosses my head. In fact I will do more good today than harm by keeping my mouth shut. I will not speak my mind – at least not all of it. Being a spiritual being, I will give way for the Spirit of God to call the shots. I won’t let the flesh rule over me. I won’t overcome evil with more evil. I will overcome evil with good.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience,

 kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. 

Against such things there is no law. 

Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the sinful nature 

with its passions and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit.

 Let us not become conceited, provoking and envying each other.

Glimpses of God

Bumping into your Geography teacher
you haven't seen in a decade
In the nostalgia of an old hymn
In an ad
In screaming colors and mismatched socks
In the smell of old books and faded ink
In the eyes of an infant.

The glimpse of God
In a shooting star
Opportune scripture
Scalding tea
In a drizzle as rain builds up tempo
Or the drunk in the commute who almost
catastrophically throws up on your nape.

The glimpse of God
Through falling in love
The aroma of a freshly brewed mug of tea
Smell of clean laundry
and cinnamon in baked pastries
A hot bowl of spicy chicken soup
A tub of ice cream

The glimpse of God
In death
In the beginning, the end
and the excitement in between.
In a fitless sleep
and the annoyance of someone's snores

The glimpse of God
In an appropriately timed wit
In the hearty laughter of friends
In the fussing of a pet pooling at your feet.
In bouncing pebbles off water surfaces
In the sighs of a sleeping child.

The glimpse of God
Before a raging storm
Within a raging storm
After a raging storm

The glimpse of God

In the quiet of the unexpected
And the peace that fans the flames
Beyond the Cross.

Hail, Slow!

God is not slow, like some of us understand slowness..

But I am slow, like some of us understand slowness. Hypothetically speaking, if you are unfortunate it would come from birth. You could be the last born in your family which would translate you fed on your Mama last (that didn't come out right). You'll grow teeth last and all hand-me-downs would always end  up at the foot of your bed patiently waiting for all bones to grow and flesh fill up on the right places before you hand them down to your farm's scarecrows. May be like me, you always finished (still do) your meals last though this changes after high school. Bad things happen to us in high school and being last in the dining table did not have room on the greater scale of bad.

I am slow and today I spaketh for mine kind. The kind of slow I spake of is not to confused with being lazy but rather, a kind of slow with its own zip code. A slow with a special drag.So slow if God did not have human plans for me I'd be a level lower than a snail. We come labelled simmer till cooked. The blue flame kind. Etched deep in our DNA so we warm up to things equally slow from chewing our food to folding clothes. In a nutshell, our bladders have more salty than average tales to tell.

You would think that this world is no place for this kind of slow so most times than not, we catch our breath even when the occasion does not call for it. We are weary of other humans and tend to wonder why precision does not exist in their daily bread. We smile more to ourselves and wear a screen saver amused look to the rest of the bland world. Slow grows (intellectually) slow; taking time reading a book because in their slow world, objects are loved one at a time. Or blame attachment issues of not wanting to step out of the story. Wholesomely so. You'll find this slow hidden in all personality traits and your best bet to catch one is when they are not looking.

But they are human which means they have demons too. Again, part of the package. Demons must be shared if anything, to exorcise them or hang their dark linen out to dry. Even the good ones. But slow has other ideas. Demons are very private things all their grim grime notwithstanding. Demons that vary from pasts piled upon pasts and caked with all kind of textures of dirt. Personal dirt. Fossilized personal demons that if excavated, their skulls won't give their conclusive ages. New acquaintances need to come with a spade, a chisel and a hammer if they are to get guaranteed breakthrough beneath social surfaces. So they keep their demons to themselves at first. But how long can those demons stay put in their closet..


Living in such a hard to please world, karma, our Achilles foot, is such a default setting. But does slow care? Rock on Karma, keep putting your best clout forward. And karma is such a nomad, always coming and going, not saying in one place for too long lest it develops roots.Like sand in an hour glass, such are the days of our lives.

We take paths we shouldn't and knowingly so because we can. We ignore our allergies in an attempt to live carefree. Oh we try and maybe hide them hives on our faces under layers of make up - ay, the little matter of our ever evolving demons. Like a good software that comes a bug en suite, karma does us in by dusk and by morning a new resolve awakes with us. We try hard not to stomp on bugs so we'll either take a walk hoping that by the time we are back, the wasp will have figured its way out. No, this should not by perceived as fear but rather giving a chance to life after all, karma stings

We are the ones that the phrase chew your food slowly, was stolen from. Because life is too short to not subscribe to deliberate meticulousness and appreciate crispy onions.

We have not been spared the ultimate weakness of man; love. So we love hard. We love punctuations and stare longingly at mango peelings as we dispose the latter off. We love all shades of grey and not just the infamous fifty. We love rust in its proper place, like the neighbour's taps. Slow is not a sadist but it finds bad scenarios as form of some abstract art that should not happen. We love buttons and zips with equal warmth that we treat laced and non-laced footwear. We could hug hot donuts if they were life-sized.We mourn receding hairlines in our men and creases defying gravity on the faces of our women with such a dedicated fondness. And children, we always wonder what runs through God's mind when He makes miniature humans.

Our teeth are not the only things that are clingy. We'll cling onto the old jacket that is several mid life crises old. We'll hold onto mementos and post-it pads, old notebooks filled. To the average man, an old notebook is a home for simple strokes of a pen but to the slow, masterpiece. No, slow does not have hogging issues. It's more like tenderness towards old things. Think of it as appreciating all things outmoded. Slow down your pace to life and embrace vintage. It's the in thing now.


And so we embrace slowness. We go about life, giving way, giving away. Trying as much as possible to ensure every single day is lived with the proper gusto. We'll try get by if not by hand luggage then hitchhiking between destinations. We're not health freaks but the slow opt for soda instead of water - the latter is so underrated it's an endangered natural resource. We'll eat three apples a day to keep the doctor - and mortician - away. Of course we will want to pass it on to the little souls that walk outside of us called children.

And then, like proverbial Johnny, we'll keep walking.

Vain Dreams

In a few hours time, the sun will have buried the last of its flaming hairs in the horizon or at least should have by the time I get to post this piece. Shortly after, we'll clear our desks and wrap up the day's hustle. Once home, your stomach puts its foot down sending up an audible growl that it must at least eat a full meal tonight. We'll zombie around in the kitchen touching this, shaking that chopping these peeling those, tossing a little bit of spice then finally sit down to listen to the rumble of the television as dinner simmers its cook on. Watching the tv without viewing. You almost wish your eyes were like ears; selective amnesia. Hearing from one ear exiting through the other. But not your eyes. You muse,  It's amazing how you get me, Autopilot.

Dinner will be enjoyed with the equal sighs of your labour in the kitchen. Pass me some of that please... Oops! Another spoon please. Pass this. Hold that. Can I have more of those? Second helping? The  meat is a little bit overcooked but it's okay. You must have mistaken my obsession on Indian saris a tard too far I mean all this pepper? If you're lucky, you will be having these conversations with yourself. But who minds conversations with self, I mean you'd seek your own opinion, no?

Again, depending with the luck gods, someone will do the dishes for you otherwise, you'll have to slave to your balcony since for some reason, the water company has gone to bed now that water that was running in the taps a few minutes ago no longer runs. Not a trickle. Well, some you win most you lose. You'll make yourself a cup of coffee or maybe tea. You'll ease back on your couch, spilling some of your spoils on a cushion. If it's a new couch, you'll rush for a wet rag and dab the mess off. Otherwise, a cuss word will suffice as the new stain joins the rest of its ilk gone before it.

The tv will keep droning on. You do not know why you just can't turn the box off or why you can't turn in for the day save that your body system's autopilot is a creature of habit. Come sunup, your heavy sleeper self will raise a fist to the new day because the forces conspired that you are never to be a morning person. So you stay up late wearing off your remote control's keypad flipping channels back and forth.

11pm. Grab your Bible to read couple of verses. Say a prayer for that friend of yours who shared her snug with you. Thank God for the goof moments you had at work that day. Yes, God is petty like that.

11:05pm. Double check that your doors are locked, the gas and taps are off - January is a stink meaner. Whatever that needs to be left upright is as thus, whatever needs to be preserved is shoved in the fridge. Idle sockets put off.

11:09. You remove your specs placing them on your coffee table. Rub your eyes. Sigh. Yes Lord. It's been real.

Lights out.

11:15pm. You ease into bed but not before running your little toe into your little bedside reading table. Having exhausted your cuss words quota for the day, you let the devil go. 

Some tossing and turning, all consistent with your disturbed sleeping patterns. Your body later gives in to sleep. The few seconds to minutes you are suspended in between consciousness and slumber-land, sleep determined to play hard to get but your body is done fighting. At one moment you are falling off a cliff and just before you scream you land into your boss's office for the weekly departmental meeting. On her white board is a skeleton structure of your fiber layout. But wait, why is she asking you about water pipe installation while you are in IT? You surprise yourself further when you hear yourself give the updates of the borehole project you have been running for the past month now. Project plan is in place but you need to sink the drill a couple feet below since the water table wasn't ascertained correctly at first..

You look at the other colleagues in the meeting. What are your siblings and pastor doing here? Wait, how again are they your colleagues? You manage to collect your jaw from the ground and turn you face towards your boss who is now replaced by a cab driver you haven't seen in years. Also, now you are all outside enjoying brunch. Then it hits you. Things and scenery keeps changing as you blink. You now face a new dilemma: how to stop blinking where existence is nonexistent.. Your eyes start to burn courtesy of your self imposed do not blink curfew because naturally, the eyeball wasn't made to be naked.. 

Six hours or so into various dimensions, in and out norm, falling off imagined cliffs, betwixt beddings and grasping for dear life at the tumult of your dreams,  the day breaks. Your alarm, the annoying extension of you rudely interrupts your sleep fits that you were already growing accustomed to. Today, as all other mornings, the snooze button is defiled by your thumb. Twice. You remember of an early meeting and your feet drag you to the bathroom. You stare in your bathroom mirror and unable to recollect your dreams, the only evidence of your restlessness lies there before you. Dried drool. Blood shot tired eyes. Light years away from you, events of the night past snicker at you. Scared perhaps that it is daytime and dreams are not creatures of the light and only find strength in the dark. You groan as you remember that as sure as the sun rises from the east, tonight will surely happen all over again. The vicious cycle waiting for you at the foot of dusk to repeat itself. 

Turning on the shower head, you mumble to no one in particular.

...same script different cast but for, now the day breaks.

Because..Three

It took three trimesters
Of waiting.
Crossed fingers.
Hope. Desperate hope.
And then excitement.
Clenching of muscle and set jaws.
Three trimesters of raw determination.
Glee and rubbing of hands.
Three trimesters of stretch marks
And anticipation to match.
Because.. Three.

A domestic tourist before her debut,
She liked travelling.
Or Mama wouldn't have travelled much that year.
And then there were people, other things she liked.
Throw in a few smileys
Outdoors too.
Because.. Three.

She would have gotten confused.
Grow a few cold feet even.
I mean, the people eager to meet her
The families around her.
Gang, people. Gang.
Too many names to recall.
So when God changed the course of obvious expectations
You understand why some memories
Can't. Be. Buried.
Because..Three

Waaan! Tuuu! Sirii!
Because 'one two three' be too mainstream for a child.
Or may be because she misses a few teeth. 
Foo. Fai. Siks.
Or that she loved counting with her mouth full.
Because, life is too short to learn table manners.
And table manners is a fuss reserved for older folks. 
Seeveh. Et. Nai. Teeeee!
So do the last letters of every word.
Because.. Three.

Dakika tu Tatu.. Tatu
Dakika tu Tatu.. Tatu
blah blah blah
Blah blaf sifuu!
Because that's what toddlers do.
Remix songs grasping the important parts.
The fog of her mind registering the rest as 'adult garb'
And unnecessary utilization of tongue muscle
Because.. Three.

She ought to have turned Three today.
But God, sitting cross-legged
In His throne
Rests His feet on Earth, His footstool
Occasionally, His attention shifts
Between an ever energetic bundle of muscle on earth
To a chuckle - a giggle perharps - in the depths of heaven
And to another upcoming new talent.
Instead of musing the obvious,
"He'd have made such a big brother"
He fondly enthuses
"They have no idea what good is in store for them".
A lot more good. Beyond Three.
Because.. Three.

Courtesy of Finger Hugs.

Child, the earth is glad you lived.

Parallel World

Previously guest blogged at Njenva's Ramblings

Disclaimer:

I have this intoxicating love of dizzying levels for all matters unfinished strictly  regarding clad and furniture. You might read a lot of that.

I live next to a cemetery. Deliberately. I love the serenity and the constant reminder that life is perishable. If anything, it ensures that I am in constant pressure to live fully on any given day. The outside of my aboard is roughly unfinished concrete wall, completed construction for the most part but its finish is as an afterthought; rugged. A small patch of unkempt grass on the outside. Inside, it's warm. Working on an in betweener kind of lighting; not too bright not too dull. Scant furniture. The beige 8x8 floor rag with uneven black patches as the centerpiece. It is where you will find me most of the times whenever I'm indoors - on the floor. Because I think better and clearer on my backside and cross-legged. I love traveling light so when I moved out of my previous aboard, I donated the furniture I had. No, I do not intend to replace any. The floor cushions thrown all over the sitting room are the leather couches in your imagination - cozy but unlike leather, far much warm and doesn't smell like a cow. A three-foot hewn log is the sole furniture which doubles up as my coffee table and desk. It belongs to H, the other life in this house, whom you'll meet quite soon.

In normal people's houses, right there at the center but against the wall is where a television would have been. There is a 6 foot book chest, also roughly hewn, roughly finished. No shiny varnish just a basic two layer of walnut wood stain. Four complete shelves with the bottom shelf undecided between a partition or not. It is currently undergoing recovery and has scant texts. Max Lucado. Francine Rivers. Teju Cole. Bodie and Brock Thoene. A hymn book. John Kiriamiti. Two worn Bibles whose repair is way overdue. I sort of prefer them like that for they remind me how messed up I am. I no longer carry them to church since I once dropped one of them and had to chase the loose sleeves up and down the parking lot. A book shelf is never complete without Maya Angelou. Three unfinished manuscripts yet to be forwarded to print. A pair of loop earrings sit put at the top of the chest. Huge ones that an infant can whip a serious hula hoop round their waists were their pelvic bones able to withstand the motion. Like my keys, they are the last thing I grab on my way out and that I fiddle with to cover my otherwise nude ear lobes. Four black one-metre thingies stand in all their one metre height on strategic corners of the house. Thinner nude cables connect them to each other. Tomahawk speakers of a custom made home theater. Just about the only electronic in this house.It is mostly off save when I am doing laundry or when I'm nursing a mind-block, which is most of the time.

Against the off white walls are windows whose beige curtains remain drawn at all times. Not too heavy not too light so they let some light in as well as  keep some darkness in. This creates a semi illusion of a semi haunted aboard. Nothing creaks save the front door. A hinge wails vehemently to the oil gods for an oiled redemption.  oil I have been making a mental note to work on. Mental notes are bad things and gather dust and rust . Impossible layers of dust. I intend to work on both the door and them mental notes today before sundown.

The kitchen is not a gourmet chef's delight and boasts of minimal utensils and H's bowls. A non finished mug of putrid tea the sole occupant in it stares at me as if I were an intruder. Even utensils do find order in their chaos. I shall not linger here anymore. That way is the bed room. You will walk into something that lingers on the bedroom door for reasons best known to itself. Nothing much to right home about the bedroom. A bed. Curtains that never get drawn open. Basketful of undone laundry. Though I live on my own, there are two pair of slippers. One of the pair is blue, I figure it is the closest the sky will ever be in my house. A wardrobe with scant change of clad for a lady. An occasional white here a seldom sky blue hue there but mostly, it's black against more black in between the browns and a jungle green. In a previous life they are called earth colors. I see it as blending in. Doing your thing without necessarily living behind visible breadcrumbs for the dogs to come sniffing.

Meet H, the only other life in this homepage. He's barely three months old ball of fur. H, because I am yet to decide what to name him between Micah and Halla until then, H it is. He doesn't purr much. I am starting to come into terms that perchance that H is orally impaired. No miaows either. He speaks Feet.  Fluently. When hungry, he stands on his hind feet on my feet and plants his fore feet  just below my knees. When he is cold, he sleeps on my feet. Bathroom break or wants to go out, H mills around my feet until I pick him and put him out. When he wants a treat, he rubs on my feet paying homage by a nip here a lick there. See the subtle dent at the foot of my bed? That's H's hangout. The log that serves as my coffee table is I recently got him a roughly hewn three feet high log for his claws. He has a slightly crooked tail, the aftermath of a banged door. That was his first and last yell/scream/sound from him. White, with grey streaks that look like spluttered ink drops. Something startled God during H's creation.

I am a teacher. Home schooling teacher. I figured out that since for some heavenly reason  I cannot seem to wrap my otherwise little head as to why children that do not belong to me seem to be enthralled by my skirts, I might as well do something about it. I wish I could wear pants to confuse them. So I home school in my own house. Not more than two to three kids. Occasional afternoon. Think of me as a homework tutor for the parents who are too busy for their kids. Two hours per day in the afternoon. They come for Math, I sit them down for some story telling session. I think the stories they have been getting for me lately help them with their Math for they keep coming back three times a week. Clock work.

When children do not wander towards my house my home schooling tends towards a different level. I tend to a thorn bush recently acquired. Now you know what all these dark specks on the palms of my hands come from. A gift from a previous owner of this house. Corrections. More like discarded. He was animated when I told him I wouldn't mind keeping the dead flowers.

Oh you think there is hope in this here flower pots? 

I wouldn't mind.

Are you dark expletives serious? You wouldn't mind keeping them?

They are just plants, I reasoned.He was raising his voice. I do not like raised voices. Raised voices raise hairs at the back of my neck. My hands clench ready for fight or flight, whichever comes first..

Do you know how long I have been trying to get those flower pots off my hands? 
Mama thought if I had them they would slow me down. She said I take a moment and smell the roses I was like WHAT!. She's something you don't want to meet! In fact there is this one time she...
 

Too many parameters, my mind quietly responds.

He spoke too first and animatedly as though words do not sit very well in his belly.

He hated them, the thingies in the pots and the clinginess that was his mother's nature. He rumbled on that that he can't afford to be tied down and life was too short to take time to smell the roses. Besides, he wasn't cut out for this mushiness brought about by flimsy flowers. Sentimental value be damned.  He must be the kind whose funeral will have no flowers. Though with the huge enthusiasm he oozes, I doubt he has given death a thought, legacy notwithstanding.

I couldn't refuse or I'd break Mama's heart which by now must be mere fragments since I have never done anything good for her. She is too needy! So I agreed to keep them thornies just to shut her up and have her leave me the more dark expletives alone..

I agreed to keep them dying pots of thornies just to shut him up. Though I cut him mid sentence while at it ending up putting him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarette. It felt good. 

Almost.

But I was left plagued with a gnawing in my bones that still has me unsettled and wonder if by talking to him, was viewing myself before a mirror...

Can things be that bad that I have no time to smell the flowers?