I ate a salad sitting on my porch in the sun. I do my best thinking with ranch dressing on my lips. Fortifying my sense of taste helps me hear and see and smell other things more acutely.
Bugs bobbed up and down through the streams of sunlight between the porch and bird feeder. I thought they’d all be dead this late in the season, but I guess they’re not much different than people. I come alive in warmth, savoring whatever time it can afford.
I heard a few lawn mowers and a few rakes rustling leaves into piles – crispy, dead foliage that just a week ago was moist and colorful and plastered to mud-laden lawns and sidewalks.
I heard the cackle of the neighborhood Nazi as she visited another neighbor in his backyard. She’s not worthy of my thoughts, I know, but she’s one of three people who make me nauseous. She really does. I see her bloated body topped with short dark mom hair waddling through her yard and I wish that a judge would grant me one slap across her face. One slap for her lies and back stabbing and all the embarrassment she’s caused me. One slap to wake her up to the reality that her husband is more gay than Barry Manilow. One slap for her ugly porch furniture. One slap for the Happy Meal toys littering her back yard. Just one slap.
Yes, I am alive to the sun and a salad and ranch dressing on my lips, to leaves and lawn mowers and cackling bitches in other people’s backyards. It’s a good day to be alive.