101 Words

Made a grocery list

Made a new list: ‘Items from Previous List I Still Forgot to Get’

Made a list, used it as a bookmark, got bored by the book, and lost it

Made a list of things other adults claim they do: change the filter, fold socks, take coffee out of microwave

Made a list of ideas to make my brain like other people’s

Tried not to make a list of everything I attempted that did not work out

Made a list of therapists—saw the third one

Third one said, “Got a suggestion; have you tried making a list?”

Lizzie paints delphiniums on the wall behind our bed, blue to match my tattoo. She draws us in purple. When I protest, she flicks paint at me. “Now it’s correct.”

I steal the brush to paint stars in our eyes and moons on our breasts. With a pencil from the nightstand, she draws a moustache on my purple face, the one on the wall, and shrieks as my bright blue handprints find her body.

Dork, she writes above my portrait. Nerd, I write above hers.

She kisses me, her lips leaving a trail of little blue flowers that will never disappear.

“Hello, Gavin darling,” said Belinda, breathless. “Sorry I’m late. Sarah didn’t show up for work, and I had to take three extra patients.” She sat on the stone and unpacked the lunch.

Gavin was silent.

Belinda bit into her tuna sandwich. “I ordered new curtains for the kitchen. Little green leaves. Won’t those look nice?”

Gavin did not reply.

She munched quietly for a while, then wiped watermelon juice from her chin. She said to him, “Wow, time to get back to work already. See you tomorrow, love.”

Belinda patted his stone, mounted her bicycle, and pedaled out of the cemetery.

“Life’s meaning is….”

What was the rest of that wonderful quotation? Agatha couldn’t for the life of her remember, and it wasn’t that long ago she had read it!

Obviously, at the age of seventy-nine she was having memory problems and had been for some time. Usually it was trivial, like where she had put her glasses, but here was something really important—life important—like forgetting to turn off the stove.

If only she’d written it down! But then she remembered her granddaughter’s advice:

She googled the first words and the rest of it came up right away, “it ends.”

He’s always believed in reincarnation—just not like this. He swallows his disappointment, vows to make the best of it. Spends years in sludgy water, mud filling his eyes and mouth, only keeps going because he knows it’ll lead to this.

One single perfect day.

And it’s finally here. He stretches unfamiliar gossamer wings, determined to live his last day to the fullest. These few idyllic hours he soars in sunshine. Dawn gilds the sluggish river. He skims across the burnished surface. Exalting in flight, in his newness and perfection—in just being alive!

A fish rises,

leaps…

and he’s gone.

Castrating cattle is my specialty. I’m getting too old for it, but ranching’s in my blood. The bank doesn’t care, delivering the past-due notice in person. Frank’s hollering, “Bess, wait!” from across the corral, but I ignore him. The banker and I are busy.

After we’re done, I rest my hands on my thighs. I’m gonna need a wheelbarrow.

At supper, we eat without speaking. Frank dives into a plate of prairie oysters, my specialty. The trick is to deep fry so they don’t get tough. I pause mid-bite, savoring the chew. The banker’s are about as tender as they come.

The stubborn rabbit ran off last Tuesday. His assistant hadn’t turned up for work again so was on her final warning. His magic wand had been left on the 4:50 from Paddington. Today’s gaggle of toddlers were a right tough crowd, but it wasn’t the day to saw one in half.

He needed to pull something out of the bag, and obviously it wasn’t going to be Mr. Flopsy. Then somehow he tripped over his own shoes. His pride took a knock but hysterics exploded like fireworks around the room. Presto chango! Without a spell being uttered, a clown was born.