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Show CONTENT A silver bubble fills my A Shade of Mortality chest. i bury my toes in the sand. The hot breeze swishes my acwoss my Waves by Dave Jones hair face like down of milkweed- like green-blue frosting slide across the silver sand. 9 am content with sky and sea spread out before my EYES. Helen MeAllister oe SLOW PROGRESS I like To touch the fur On a caterpillar’s Back in summer when he’s warm from The sun. Pat Hassel GOING AWAY Your warm Steamed Disappears Sorgened As on breath écy like of air window pane a ribbon of I walk away, Diane 18 sunlight by a cloud Donoviel Little Paul clambered into the car and settled himself with a bounce between his mother and father. ae folded his stubby fingers together, placed them on his lap and sat quietly stiff. He was uncomfortable. His dark red bow tie was tight about his neck and made his cheeks flush. His stiff leather shoes, which mother had bought him special, made his feet hurt and his toes tingle; he did not like to dress up. The evening sun filtered through the windshield and warmed his hands. His father was lighting a cigarette, and Paul watched. He placed the cigarette between his lips and struck a match. It flared and fizzled a bright orange then died down to a miid blue and yellow flame. Paul smelled the burning odor of sulfur. His father cupped his hands around the match to shield it and leaned forward, putting the tip of the cigarette into the flame. He sucked on the cigarette until its end smouldered and the white smoke curled about his fingers. His father held the match out. Paul pursed his lips, blew a short quick breath, and the flame shuddered and died. “How come Grandpa Beemer is going away?’ asked ‘Paul. His father sucked more smoke, hesitated, then blew it from his lungs hissing under his breath. His eyes fixed on the steering wheel. Well, Pauly,” he said, “your Grandpa Beemer is very old now and he’s tired, so God decided to let Grandpa live with him and get some rest.” “In heaven?” asked Paul, his eyebrows raised. “That's where all good people go “Uh huh,” his father answered. when they get old and tired.” Paul’s mother stretched her arm about his shoulders and pulled his head to her bosom. “Don’t, Jim,” she said. “He doesn’t understand.” His mother was warm, against his cheek and she smelled nice. She always smelled nice. About like the lilac blossoms that bloomed every spring in their back yard. When she held him close, he was Safe from anything that might hurt him. His father turned the key in its slot and the engine growled to a start. He clicked the gear shift into place and the car eased forward into the street. Through the big smeared windows, Paul saw the houses going by each with a tall maple tree or an occasional oak standing ominously before it. The sun was setting now and the trees were glazed in their most brilliant colors of gold and yellow. A slight breeze rustled through their branches and the leaves clapped as they flipped to the ground like paint from a brush. Squirrels live in those trees, thought Paul, and he remembered an evening like this on Grampa’s porch. Grampa sat on the stone steps of his front porch and Paul huddled near him with a dusty wicker basket full of hickory nuts at his side. The old man took a nut from the basket, doubled his fist around it and squeezed until the nut cracked under the pressure. His hands were rough and white with callouses, but they were very strong, and the purple veins swelled when he cracked the nuts. He then twitched and the squirrels’ whiskers flounced. Then, with a quick dart of 19 |