Kelly Garriott Waite's Blog, page 8

Common

He sets his tea cup carefully in the saucer and makes a face. "I don't like the way this cup clicks every time I put it down. It's like a period, marking the end of every sip."
"No, dear," she says. She pauses over her cup, her perfect red lips poised to blow regally upon her tea. "The click is a comma. Commas indicate pauses. Periods are for endings. When your tea is gone."
"It's gone after one sip. These cups...what do they hold, an ounce of liquid? I would prefer a mug." A mug with coffee. One of those giant mugs he'd seen in the bookstore the other day.
"Mugs are common. So is coffee."
He sighs. "I'm common."
"Every day, I try to forget that."


Read more here

Reflections

Cara glances at the spoon her mother holds towards her, a spot of lime Jell-o at the tip. She sees herself upside down, a long drawn-out face, a wall of books behind her.

"Cara." Her mother shakes the spoon. The Jell-o moves in response, little reverberations spreading out like an accusation. Cara opens her mouth. A baby bird.

"I'm too thin," she says after swallowing.

"You're beautiful."

"I can still see, Mom." She sighs. "You know what I just realized?"

Her mother dabs at Cara's face with a napkin. "What's that?"

"I see the world through reflection."


Read more here

Timing

The cat knows Mrs. Wilson is dying: Cats know these things.

"Remember especially the sick."

The cat--we may as well get his name out of the way: Leonardo, Leo for short--blinks at the television, tuned to a cable broadcast of last Sunday's Mass. Leo curls up beside Mrs. Wilson and begins to purr.

Does it seem inappropriate to you, this purring? It felt inappropriate to Leo, but he soldiered on, not wanting Mrs. Wilson to feel abandoned as she parted this world. Truth be told, his heart wasn't in it.

To read more, click here

The God of Internet

Thirty-three gods.
So passé.

I have deposed the gods of honesty and compassion,
creativity.

People no longer worship them.
Now they turn to me.

I'm the god of internet.

I shall stand alone.

To read more, click here

This Day: November 7, 2103

The wind blusters.

The clouds are gray.

I shiver in my coat,
yank on my hat,
wish I'd thought to bring a scarf.

The mittens I wear are mismatched
pink and white
and belong to one
(perhaps both)
of my daughters.

The dog,
I notice,
has chewed a hole
into one thumb.


Read more here

Autumn's Craft

Lovely autumn.

Your craft and wile seduce me into celebrating the falling of the leaves:
the oranges and the yellows;
the reds and the purples
heartbreakingly deep;

anticipating the cold-tinted mornings
and brisk afternoons,
dark evenings playing rummy around the kitchen table over
steaming mugs of tea.

Lovely autumn.

You call me to the woods again and again,
my feet shuffling through leaves thickly carpeting the path
so that I can no longer see my way.


Read more here

Eleven-One

She falls into rushing river, fingers seizing shapeless air, river dashing her beneath the wooden bridge bearing blue graffiti: forever young.

Indeed.

Someone must fulfill the prophesy.

Do you blame me my choice?

November first gusted in with howling wind and heavy rain. The stream in the nearby woods is nearly impassable and the roots of the silver maples cling to the banks.

Pruned

"What about these mugos?" I gestured to one of the pines framing our front stairs. Well, blocking the stairs, actually. Any time visitors come to the front door, they have to practically vault over the greenery.

"That's not mugo," the arborist said. "It's dwarf scotch. Softer needles."

I nodded and cast a glance at my husband. This was the third plant we'd misidentified so far.

"Look at the size of that trunk. That pine is forty years old at least." He studied it, scratching his chin. "Never been pruned, either."

Exactly. I wanted the shrubs trimmed back, to open up the house's entrance and to give it a more balanced look. As it was now, the shrub on the left was easily twice the size of its partner to the right.



Read more here

Don't Boo...

"You don't boo the stripper." Jensen frowned into his drink, regretting his partner's choice of venue for fleshing the truth from Carl DeAngelo. DeAngelo's wife's version of the truth, that is; the version that would guarantee a favorable divorce settlement and seal a nice commission for Jensen and Jensen, Private Detectives. It'll be perfect, Louise had said. Get him to a strip club. Buy him a few rounds. He'll spill his guts. Louise was probably at home right now, tucked into her favorite armchair, cracking the spine of a new mystery. Why had he chosen to go into business with Louise? Why, indeed, had he asked her to marry him?

"You lecturing me on local etiquette, Jensen? I guess you don't want my business that bad."

His cover was that of a hardware salesmen. Jensen didn't know a doorknob from a doorbell, but Louise seemed to think he could pull it off. "Nothing local about it. You just don't do it."



To read more, click here

Signs of Snow

I do not know how long my daughter has been driving around on a flattish tire.

Neither does she.

Neither, in fact, does my husband, who, in denial of the sad, sagging evidence before him, declared the tire gauge to be broken.

Today is the day: Monday, mother of all get things done days, the day of fresh to-do lists, lists full of intention and promise and hope. Today, I get my daughter's tire fixed.

I step outside and work the ice from the windshield, glancing nervously at the tire, wondering if it will be able to limp the half mile into town. I drive slowly, holding up traffic and occasionally driving down the center of the road to avoid the potholes that gather at the street's edges. At the repair shop, I hand the keys over to the woman behind the desk and head home on foot.

My breath comes in thick puffs as I walk, gloved hands jammed into my coat pockets. Everywhere I look, fallen autumn leaves are edged in frost.

As I arrive home, I'm greeted by Grey Cat and Calico--a stray who stopped by for dinner one night and decided to stay on. Perhaps it's the bowl of organic milk my son sets out every morning. Maybe it's the flannel blanket on the patio. Perhaps it's just the kibble. Whatever it is, despite numerous flyers posted in town, it looks as if Calico Cat is here to stay.

To read more, click here