Lying here with you, half awake drifting dreaming back to a bedroom window in a cabin in the woods and that birdfeeder maple branch outside.
That time at night when the branch bent down down down as the mama bear raided the feeder but that branch! Bending all on its own out of nowhere.
Walk up the hallway to row after row of glass jars full of beans. Adzuki beans, appaloosa beans, pinto red and black eyed peas.
Breathe you in, breathe in the memory of that window and the hall of beans.
He spends days filling quart-sized mason jars with dry goods. He stands and stares at them. He holds their sturdiness in his hands.
She was a tall glass of wine. She was bees on flowers and gardenia on the wind. She was a patchwork quilt. She was a homecooked meal.
She took it all with her.
She was endless syndication.
Every cloud has a silver lining. The platinum was worthless. We ate a fine lunch on the proceeds.
I drink my water from a mason jar and my wine from a jelly jar.
You and me, let's lasso the sun with a water rope.
Drink me up. Half full.
Sir of etceterablah challenged me this week as follows: "Every cloud has a silver lining," he thought to himself, then continued, "silver, of course, being less valuable than platinum." Talk about the general status of your glass (half full or half empty), how it came to be, and whether you view its status as a blessing or a curse.
I got my dry goods from Dave Hayes. And I have written on the topic of the glass being half full before, here and here. (Both of those posts contain adorable photos so you should definitely click.)