of Kansas no more
I’ve been swirling about in a two-week tornado of work and writing, and the wind is finally dying down. Now I’m hovering just above ground with the tumbleweeds and rooftiles and chickens that got sucked up with me, about to land here:
Mam rinses her paint brushes in the kitchen sink. The water runs turquoise and red and gold. She starts tearing up basil leaves for dinner while Pap sits at the piano, tickling Debussy out of the keys. Somehow Clair de Lune sounds even more exquisite floating through basil-scented air.
The sun is playing energetic tag with a pair of thick clouds, and I’m a half-watchful mother sitting in the doorway, my eyes on my book but my skin intently absorbing their antics.
When I need a break from the funneling debris in Tornado Alley, I escape here. It’s safe.