Where To Find A Ghost

My little girl is nine now.  She grows up more and more each day.  Her ears are now pierced, a gift from her grandma on the first day of a summer's visit.  She plays the violin and clarinet beautifully.  She is a good dancer and has taken to soccer.  She is very organized and thoughtful.  (In fact, talking to her on the phone the other day, inquiring about my efforts to do some painting around the house, she wisely said 'remember Dad, a good painter spills a little bit, or even a lot.'  What a wise and thoughtful thing to say to a bad painter like her dad.)

And then I found the list.

Summer's First Day

It is One Hundred Degrees and the Sun burns like a fire.  The sugar snap peas reach for the baking sky, laden with sweet, crisp seed pods.  The solid trellis bends to the north under the weight of the vines; the twine on the pine frame is taut like piano wire.

It is so hot and humid.  The only energy I can muster is to pick peas, stepping between rows of other greens, catching some breeze in the little shade of the vines. 

The garden is early this year, a month ahead.  Many plants sprout bright flowers, already gone to seed.  

It is summer’s first day.  The longest day.  Everything is growing and reaching for the sky.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont.  (c) 2012 David Rocchio

Pigeons, Guns and Cheetos

            The pigeons are a problem.  But without the pigeons I wouldn’t have the gun, and without the gun I wouldn’t have had to go to the gun shop, and without visiting the gun shop I would not now know the batter recipe, but I get ahead of myself.