Ladybug

I was writing this morning, and on a roll, and while re-reading some of my paragraphs in the section of my story I tucked my hands into my skull-dog hoodie's pockets. I felt something in the right pocket and pulled it out -- it was the ladybug that Ben had given me, the little chocolate one still wrapped up, so cute, even with its now missing paper leg. I am so happy to find the little guy. I was wondering where he'd disappeared to. I have this habit of pocketing objects and discovering them, with fresh wonder, later. Another scenario? Ben and I had been to Astoria for the day, and on our way back stopped at a cemetery in the middle of the woods. It was up this winding gravel road, on a hillside, and the tombstones dated way, way back. There were fresh flowers, wilted flowers, and--lost in the wet, dirty grass--a flower made of some kind of fabric, polyester or suede or something. The flower had been ripped from its stem, its bouquet, and looked so lonely just hanging out in the rain. So I picked it up and--you got it--tucked it away. About two months ago I was having a bad day and, as I often do, made my hands into gentle fists and snuggled them away in another hoodie. When I felt the flower I knew immediately what it was, and I had this big ol' grin on my face when I pulled it out and looked at its pink petals. It now sits in my bedroom, on the CD booklet of Patty Griffin's Impossible Dream, because to me it fits in perfectly with the artwork.