The signal

The leaf blower in the distance was a signal to her. She closed her eyes and prayed for the muse to visit, to also hear the signal. Alas, she was alone in her disheveled, weedy yard, with the espalier apple tree stripped bare of apples in an effort to save them from squirrels, raccoons, and rats.

Signal be damned and the words don’t come and her eyes are heavy. It’s the second day in a row that an afternoon nap was required to avoid falling over asleep where she stood. The exhaustion is a mystery or perhaps an easily solved equation of too little sleep.

She sif he’d and recrossed her legs, writing in a little notebook with a pen her nephews had given her for graduation. As they’d left the party, five year old Jay had yelled, “Hope you like the world’s most expensive pen! ‘Cause that’s what we got ya!” And her brother looked just like their father when he laughed.

I’l finish this lame 12 minutes and try again later. But later will be time for other things, time to see the husband after a day of moving through the world without him. Lame it will be then. No cheating, no shame.

A car roars its awful engine to ear drum bursting decibels, waking Diva Dog Betty from a sound sleep. She thinks for a while, not certain she is safe, but eventually curls back up in the weeds near my feet. She sighs, signaling that maybe we’ll make it through the afternoon with its gentle breeze and chimes singing, and prism rainbows covering our little yard, itself an island, but terribly close to shore.

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