She stops in the middle of the manicured path. Pinches my arm.
“Gran, what’s wrong?”
“Those girls stole it—that parasol Mama gave me for my birthday. The one
with the red fish.”
I could see she was trembling despite her heavy sweater. “Oh Gran, it’s
probably...misplaced.”
“Believe me child, those girls are sneaky.”
“Look at that maple, Gran. Last week the leaves were still green. See how red
they’ve gotten.”
“When they think I’m asleep, those girls take a quick look to see if anyone’s watching, then they sweep all the dust balls under my bed.”
worry stones
the words
between spaces
worked in marketing communications with IBM and before that with one of the divisions
of The State University of New York at Albany. Her poems have been published in a
variety of online and print venues, including Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Ribbons,
Haibun Today, Contemporary Haibun Online, The Heron’s Nest, and
KYSO Flash. She currently lives with her husband in Cary, North Carolina.
