Hurricane season, now that's stuff I know, I know what a wind is, and we too far inland this place of concrete and asphalt where all the world been a-watching for years, looking for ballots, seeking stories of truth? At themselves, if only we would look there but for once, we'd see all we ever needed to try to understand.
Truth is, it takes a mighty strong wind to blow a storm up here and cause any lasting damage. About like the humidity, no real harm after its five seasons run damp out of four, year after year. The stuff calmed itself a spit, kinda like (we hope) all the political rhetoric finally. Lowered metaphorical temperature gauges and actual barometrics, don't that sound mighty fine? Masks with heat and a beard turns hot quick on a woman in climes like these, at least in our little house, and not in a good way.
Finally, a day of something different and good. School back in. Yee-haw. Not just back online after summer's break that lasted what two years?, but it's BACK IN, in the school house, not all that online stuff, not that I was against any of that. Or am, mind you.
Holidays ain't begun.
A moment to be.
Me and you and us.
Don't even have to fuss over any food, hun, but what the nightly microwave can reheat or some delivery app drop on the porch, three nights in a row is it this week?
Please take my card.
Please let us not argue over them pumpkin candies again. I know we have diabetics now in the house. Or the dressing or stuffing, no harsh words there please ma'am, please not about tight or loose, turkey roasted or fried. Let's not draw straws on how to prepare Thanksgiving or Christmas dishes this year, OK. No talk of votes at all today, can we? Maybe this time a tiny piece of peace in this one house and at all the polls no ill will. 'Tis the season?
No just a fine autumn day. Simple and crisp like me. Officially fall. The old wife says fall, you fall off. Man, the season's autumn. Like her hair, no that's auburn, couple letters wrong, but then she gets highlights. Don't get me started.
Bring me another beer please. Take my card this time, keep it. We back-porch sippin'.
One of those, that kinda day, and I wanted it all to myself and all for you, all for one and one for all, whatever that means these days where nothing much means whatever it was that we once thought it used to mean.
About the author
R. P. Singletary is a lifelong writer and a native of the southeastern United States. His work appears or is forthcoming in Bumble Jacket Miscellany, Ariel Chart, Syncopation Literary Journal, Last Leaves, Stone of Madness, The Journal, and elsewhere.
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