While walking to work a few days ago I noticed an orange crayon on the ground, partially smashed with the little broken parts forming a sort of explosive effect.
To have a lone crayon like that, out on a deserted street, I thought was a powerful image. I was a little disappointed to find another crayon, purple, five feet away. You think somethings unique..
I then noticed my left hand was balled into a little fist (which genuinely surprised me), the taut skin between thumb and forefinger numb, the sole target of the remaining cold wind, like some kind of ineffective sail to the rest of my body.
For the remainder of the evening I couldn't help but try and put those two observations together into some kind of poetic cohesion- nothing really came to mind. So it's just the facts Ma'am.
I was pleased to note that the next day on my way to work the crayons were still there- even worse for wear, but there.
***
I saw a little girl call her mother "mumsy" (or something else appropriately folksy, pretty sure it was mumsy, but I was wracking my brain trying to be sure. All I can say with certainty was how it jumped out at me with its anachronistic sweetness. Cracked my heart a bit.)
My latest library holds weren't in the public access space, maybe they just hadn't been moved there yet, so the librarian went and got them for me from their safe spot behind the counter (I've recieved aid from that librarian before, hers is a face I've known for running on seven years now though I don't know her name. The cane is new, as is the limp. Not fair that she has to move around for the sake of my Incredible Hulk DVD. Cracked my heart a bit more.)
***
On the grass, just short of the street, on my way home- a green marker, still in one piece, sits on the off-green grass.
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