Tattooed

Well, I’m happy to report that I’m recovering nicely from my recent surgery. 

What’s that you say?  You didn’t know I had surgery?

That’s OK.

It came as a bit of a shock to me, too.

* * *

A couple of weeks ago, I willingly subjected myself to an eyebrow wax.  The technician led me to the back, plopped me in a chair, threw a dirty plastic gown around my shoulders and shoved my head into one of those horrible cutout sinks.  She painted hot honey above and below my eyebrows; smoothed industrial-strength tape on top and gave a mighty yank.

I couldn’t help it: I swallowed hard to hold back my yelp.

The technician laughed and smoothed more tape on my eyebrow.  “I’ve had seven tattoos, but I still can’t get used to having my eyebrows waxed.”

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The Gathering Time

Tonight

Night falls gently as my husband and I walk the dogs this evening: The last of the lightning bugs flash lazily.  Clouds gather thick and close.  Water rushes along the sides of the street, but for now, the rain has passed.  From the trees, the katydids sing and respond; sing and respond a harsh percussive three note tune while the crickets offer a gentle lullaby from tall grasses.

Autumn is a time of gathering up: a time for the bringing in of the harvest.  It’s a time for shaking the sand from one’s feet and for folding up the beach towels; a time for exchanging flip flops for sturdy shoes and backpacks. 

Autumn is a time to gather in one’s family; to sit extra long at the dinner table, exchanging stories of the day; a time to see the yellow glow of lights in the windows of other houses and know that they, too, have gathered together.

The sun reels in her arms of gold a bit earlier every day; lazily casts them out a bit later; a bit closer every morning.  But it’s too early in the season to tire of the darkness: the change is welcome; comforting; new.

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