It's Still Life

Her Lunchbox Spoke Volumes

But that business of a first kiss was hard for my little sister — she hit Christopher on the head with her metal lunchbox (mine was Royal Stewart red plaid; her’s was bright flowers). Between us, she was always the softer one. I lived in jeans and summer t-shirts, even when it snowed down hard. She wore dresses, flowered mostly, even when it snowed down hard. She was precise, persnickety. Practised her penmanship between ruled lines. Straight as military. My letters flowed into words that plunged down the right side of the page. Never could write in a straight line. Compensated by writing in psychedelic-hypnotic circles. “Are you trying to be clever?” the teacher would say. You have to expect such deviations when a left-hander is forced into right-handedness. But such problems are no bigger than the child. Such problems scent childhood.

scents of brittle pine
the shadow of a seagull
it pleases heaven

dVerse Haibun Monday. Image CC:00 unSplash