One and the Other, by Susan Lesser

Between the two of them there was no pretense, but it was easy because one of them was a cat. It is a lovely thing for one of a twosome to be a cat. At least half the duo purrs with happiness when offered the leftover turkey. She meows heartily when it is time to open the back door and check on the snow depth and wind chill before deciding to spend the rest of the day in bed on the blue sweater that the other one forgot to hang up.

Everyone is free to sneeze, or burp, or swear as the situation warrants, but only the cat will swish her tail in a fit of pique. In the absence of pretense, the human being half can belt out “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” as loud as a rumbling snow plow, even though she knows she cannot hit even half the notes. The cat does not need to be polite, doesn’t say “I always loved that song.” She merely blinks and goes back to sleep. 

There is more, of course. Much of it having to do with watching Project Runway without checking to see if anyone wants to watch something else, maybe something about cars or weight-lifting. Or maybe someone is sharpening her claws on the antique desk that belonged to Great Uncle Noah which causes the other one to clap her hands and yell, “No! Bad cat!,” but neither of them feels guilty after.

Then they discover that everyone needs a nap on the sofa under the green striped comforter, feeling cozy and content and they both do their own version of purring. Some are better than others. Sometimes it sounds like one or the other is doing a snoring sort of purr, but it is all okay.

***

The opening phrase, "Between the two of them there was no pretense," is borrowed from the novel Offshore, by Penelope Fitzgerald.

love poem for my sister, by Barbara Brazill

they will miss us when we are gone

those grey haired men with faded eyes

tired spirits forgotten of tender gestures

frozen moments of yes and maybe

lost

lost

they will miss those days of celebration

sparkle dusted windowsills twinkle lights

laughter gathered spring flowers

lush tomatoes brimming apron arms

gone

gone

we who have heard whispers riding in on breezes

brushing our hair with rain soaked secrets

teasing our hearts with memories of truth

waking our hopscotch dreams with dares and promises

value

value

we who know the barefoot dance dusty earth thumping 

wide hips swaying gnarled fists in the clouds

shouts that reach to homeward lands and chosen fortunes

“teh na na teh wah na heya heya whaaa teh na”

now

now

we will not miss them when we are gone

we will live the days of sunrise and laughter

tattered ragtag  journey of sparks and rusty songs

baskets of soft feathered birds and new tomorrows

always

always

believe

My List of Light, by Tina Wright

moonlight   starlight   sun

light   candle light

fire light in the fire place

bonfires big as night

the bird air of dawn   noon hour's

dizzy glare   later the love lamps of dusk

turn on   lightning bug light and

lightning itself

LED cool and hot footlights

spotlight   porch light   flash light

tail and traffic lights' red plastic glow

Christmas time illuminates the snow

and northern lights of planet earth

shiver galactic greens

magnetically

the light of a match

the light of a football stadium

light reflected in a window passing by

or in a woman's eyes

another moon appears in the pond

the loud lights loud lights of

fireworks   4th of July

colors above   sparklers below spitting

hissing white light

Real Estate, by Summer Killian

I wonder will the realtor tell another couple not to worry

this is your first house, as if it is a cup of coffee, last night's homework, or

a pair of pants you'd wear as you knelt in the muddy garden, 

dutifully replaced, easily forgotten.

I wonder will the new owners wish its walls back to white, like when we first came here.

I wonder will they re-do the attic, create a third level, 

fourth if you count what's below ground. 

I wonder will they gather round a table, twist the caps off wine, 

drink to thanks and giving, drink to hope.

I wonder will they hear it echo too big, too empty

or will the floors & the steps & the thresholds finally beneath the weight of little feet sigh,

as we inhale & exhale & clasp each other's hands

as we walk away, as we go back the way we came.

Flowers I Miss in February, by Sue Norvell

Garden catalogs arrive in January. These days, computers tell the companies that I am older and less mobile — and more importantly — have not bought anything from them in recent years, so I receive fewer than before. White Flower Farms is the exception. Their catalog arrives and I dive in.

Multitudes of day lilies lift my spirits. The plant breeders have been busy and Hemerocallis now can be almost white. Another is so close to a scarlet red it nearly shimmers off the page.

I look for the true Geraniums. Not the Pelargoniums we commonly call geraniums, but the finer leafed perennial with an abundance of small composite flowers. Years ago I had one called "Johnson's Blue." It died as the Norway Maple stole its sunlight after three years, but the memory of those blue flowers makes me search the pages, hoping.

Who buys the yellow Lady's Slippers, I wonder? This exotic cost $130 per plant, if I remember correctly. It's a brilliant yellow, like a bit of trapped summer sun.

Mostly, though, they make me think of the treasure my daughter and I found when we went for a walk in a Massachusetts wild area. I was enjoying the scene: we went past enormous grey boulders which had split, leaving a pathway down their midsections — the sort of setting which makes authors write of elves, and small boys instantly become pirates or superheroes. The spring green trees and understory growth were lush and fresh. They hadn't suffered the ravages of too many deer, unlike our sad suburban forests.

The trail turned a corner, and upslope were 14 pink Lady's Slipper plants in bloom. We froze in our tracks, as if moving would startle them and they might flee. In an instant, with my daughter I was connected to my mother, the grandmother she never knew. Mom loved wildflowers and knew many, many by name. Lady's Slippers had grown freely on Long Island when she was a girl, before bulldozers preceded the subdivisions. She frequently reminisced in the spring, nostalgic for those Lady's Slippers. Suddenly, we were seeing them as she had seen them. Wild and profuse.