Until Then

Her Feather, Her stoop, My writing...

  Blow the feather, blow the feather, not too hard, not too soft.  An occasional scooch of my buns to the left or the right.  This my spot on the stoop, a wooden stoop, the kind with splinters. The kind you don’t sit on when you are wearing your “show it all off” shorts.

     Blow the feather, blow the feather.  The feather drifts perilously close to the end of my nose.  Pigeon feathers are easy to find, but my dad says that the fluff from a magpies ear works the best.  He gave me this one, though I don’t know where he got it. A curling tendril of the fluff flirts with the corner of my upper lip, not touching or maybe touching, tickling just the same. If I sweat too much in the afternoon sun, the feather might stick.  My feather, my sweat, my splintery stoop.

     Blow the feather, blow the feather. Yelling, banging, complaining, moaning, I hear it.  In there, inside the house, I am not very good.  It is here, on the stoop, that I rule. The smell of barbecue might be strong, but strong enough for me to let the feather land? Maybe for  ribs, if watermelon comes next, or strawberry shortcake.

     Blow the feather, blow the feather. It’s not that I don’t notice the green of the grass, or the way the dandelions are perfect little suns, or the entire zoo of clouds that march by in the late spring sky. The sky is so bright, the black of my feather standing out like Uncle Ben, the only white man in his Memphis jazz quartet.  I see things alright. I soak them in like Maribell, the psychic down the street, without really having to notice them full on. It gives me strength like a superhero, easily holding the universe aloft with my breath.

     Blow the feather, blow the feather. Two hundred and ninety-two, just thirty shy of my record. My mom calls through the ratty screen door, it’s time to go.  Twenty-four short. Mom bursts out the door with a squeak, a rattle and a bang, her foot kicking the small of my back as the feather floats gently to the sidewalk in front of the stoop.  My stoop, my feather. I pick it up and put it under an upside down tuna fish can under the lowest step. What’s more important, the feather or my dance lessons? I can’t decide at that moment.  Tomorrow I will surely blow the feather until it is time for dance lessons, maybe I will know by then. Until then, I dance.

Author's Note

Thanks.

Reviews

[barleygirl]

Your story sounds like a realistic everyday anecdote of childlike pastime before electronic devices gobbled up all free attention . . . a much different kind of mindlessness than that which is these days focused on a device screen . . . and you capture that lazy physicality that's often missing from today's childlike pastimes. The scene you paint reminds me of how I might avoid the noisy chaotic family scene inside, chasing a peaceful bit of fluff. The feather could be a symbol for the dreams that flutter by & we sometimes chase in our minds during stretches of inattention *smile* Fondly Margie

[Crowley]

Sorry haven’t been around, a lot of bad family stuff going on right now. I really appreciate stopping by and reading, this one is written a little nostalgically like things used to be. Doesn’t really come through that the main character is a girl, but I guess it works either way. Thanks for the splendid review and your frienship in here. I will be back, just need to take care of this s**t show called life right now.

[barleygirl]

We all get sidetracked by that nasty task master called life! Keep on keepin' on! (((HUGS)))

[Gypsy Warrior Queen]

I can't believe I missed this beauty somehow...I feel like your still sitting on that stoop, feather hiding discreetly in your pocket wondering if the dance had been different ...would you be sharing these treasured moments with us....still

[Crowley]

I love how this one makes me very nostalgic...i would be there.

[Crowley]

Oh and my character was supposed to be a girl...guess I'm not sure I pulled that off. Or maybe we all just tend lace the author at the scene.

[Gypsy Warrior Queen]

I was wondering about that..nah I picture you as a child... I was gonna ask you ....you dance and karaoke? lol

[Crowley]

I can dance some.

[emmajoy]

These words truly are a blissful of pleasure and effort. Your language curls and drifts like that feather, mesmerising - almost smiling at the reader and I for one, found myself sort of creeping lips into blow-gently-blow shape! The miracle of words is when there IS a focus yet the mind and heart still see and feel
' .. .. 'the way the dandelions are perfect little suns, or the entire zoo of clouds that march by in the late spring sky. The sky is so bright, the black of my feather standing out like Uncle Ben, the only white man in his Memphis jazz quartet. I see things alright. '
Such a beautiful cascade of colourful moments, Crowley! Have read your work over a decade, and truly do think this could be the very best!

[Crowley]

Good to see you...thank you for the wonderful words. this is one of my favorites tones and textures. I love o pick up on the awesomeness that is our private thoughts and visions. thanks again!

[Onlyme]

Majestic, insightful, delightful and so heavenly to read. And simply enjoy. I love the way you express yourself in your writing.

[Crowley]

Two in a day...I feel special!!! Thank you so much. I really appreciate the reviews and the really kind words!!

[Onlyme]

You are special. :) your great.