Author: Stephen J Frankenberry

Just some guy in a Pirates hat, couple'o cats and this spot

Let Them Eat Grapes (post)

by Stephen J Frankenberry3 Comments on Let Them Eat Grapes (post)

Decided tonight to not do any writing after bad attempts at forcing something (yes, fully aware of the now current irony here) and, instead, try to just keep to a normal, human, regular ol’ me schedule on a Friday for once and just pretend that it’s like any other night during the week and NOT a finally reached weekend to stay up to all hours like I’m reliving some little kid fantasy of being allowed to not have to go to bed all normal and such with no adult supervision or guardrails and eating nothing but candy, even though I AM an adult (at least as I’ve been told on occasion and that a birth certificate will attest) and could and should admonish myself and hold the guardrails up on my own but too often don’t (there was actually and admittedly a little candy involved … but hey, it was dark chocolate which is better right?).  

Last weekend kind of put this in some stark perspective when I realized on Sunday morning, around 9a, that I hadn’t been to bed yet, since Friday when I got up for the day, though I’m sure I nodded off at some point in my somewhat recently bought sleek and cool, tall backed computer chair holding the napping torch for old men everywhere who fall asleep in chairs but, as said old man, I just can’t do that shit any longer. Well, I can, but just not terribly well and when Beck, earlier tonight, as we did of bit of catching up on a day and a week, an eventful one, and a one where I was sitting in a rocking chair, I know huh? told me that I can start to sound a bit silly and punch drunk about half way through a weekend’s lack of sleep and I realized enough is enough.

So, I decided to just stick to my usual weeknight schedule on this Friday. Come home, say Hi to Beck and Mr Matt (nephew) and the Arthur and the Saphira and the Rikki (cats), give a “Hello” shout down the stairs to my Bella and the Cricket (also cats) while moving rather quicky to the bathroom for a pee (it was a longer ride home than usual tonight with some snow that involved a long brush and a grabbing of gloves before I could drive, so peeing was of the utmost importance, the first thing, a priority, as that bit of extra time on the road can really get ya as an old dude) get some dinner in order for the girls and then for me, look at a few things in the Attic, some new likes and views and comments, thanks everyone, while Cricket waits to share my dinner, something she will remind of in meowling impatience if I am moving too slow for her liking on some nights, plus I know, she knew, that I had some pasta tonight … she could smell it … a slice of ziti ala vodka pizza from earlier and the Cricket, well she just LOVES herself some pasta.

Then it was search for a something to watch, continue some recent new found shows maybe, “Pluribus” or “Down Cemetery Road”, look at the texts I send to myself during the week for new watch ideas, possibly a movie, or just scroll through all the possibilities without really deciding on anything, just preview a bunch of trailers which, eventually, can prove to be just like I had taken the time to watch an actual movie.

I did eventually decide on something though, “The Legend of Ochi”, which I had been eyeing for a while, for a well spent 5 dollar rental, which was a story of unintentionally befriending some perceived enemy but one that’s really cute with big ears and one we’ve seen many times over but had Willem Dafoe and Emily Watson and Finn Wolfhard from “Stranger Things” and a wonderful young actress I didn’t know and a really cool, really cute, big eared little furry fella I just mentioned with even bigger emotive eyes and a Momma just waiting for and dearly missing him.

This garnered some genuine welling up from me at the end, eye dabbing with the bottom of my T-shirt, but not in a bad way, though there were some harrowing moments and I thought “Well done Me. You spent almost a movie’s length worth watching trailers and then also watched a full movie (after its trailer – twice) and still kept in line, almost, with a regular night during the week”.  

But then, at the end of “The Legend of Ochi” and, again, some eyes dabbed with the bottom of a t-shirt, I went to my little half fridge for a seltzer and a beer and I noticed the remainders of a bag of grapes that I had brought home with me, from my other little fridge, the one under my desk at work and I said to myself “Let them eat Grapes”

Then I was fucked.

Now I had to get up and expand on “Let them eat grapes” and I had been doing so well.

And this was the dumbest of shit. I mean who the hell is going to say “Let them eat grapes?” Who is possibly going to take that as some dismissive thing, as it sounded in my head, like Marie-Antoinette and some shit about cake (which didn’t really work out all that well for her if embellished, somewhat fictional history recalls) but “Let them eat Grapes?”

Hell Steve, who don’t like grapes?

I mean if I am some sort of disdainful aristocrat basically telling you to fuck off “Let them eat grapes” would be a real head scratcher right?

Let them eat grapes and let them have universal health care and let them shorten the divide between the have’s and the have nots and let them feel safe?

Yeah, surely some correlations to our current here but I ain’t goin’ there, not right now at least. That’ll just make me angry.

So, “Let them eat grapes” which I did by the way, as I try to be a bit healthier with my snack choices these days but only after some dark chocolate of course.

The Mathematic (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on The Mathematic (poem)

So, Mish, at dVerse Poets had an idea this week to get poetic about numbers, of which you can find the explanation here.

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The Mathematic

The Mathematic turned to poetry

beauty up his numbered dull

with colorful thoughts

or ugly pretty found bursts

of emotion and sight  

till he saw poets could count

emotions in rules

and breaths even, if they wished them just right

.

He wondered to witches

calling earth and then sky

and all in betwixt … us

unseen to our eye

for wardings and cures from curses and threats

till he saw difference … in

amount’s pinch or drop’s intent

could be worried life or harbingers of death

.

He examined too, to priests

held in such lofty regard

that he envied not bound

to explain earthly fears  

more instead some grand prescience beyond

no greater the bard

but also one to sing in sequential verses

spoke in congregated number feared curses

.

He thought, then, I too, count

but just so in stars

making maps as guides for their rides cross the sky

taking us in their own prettied word silence wind

above our footed clay

healing worries of our bound

or maybe, in those heavens

I too have numbers profound

and the Mathematic

found himself

unalone

First (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on First (poem)

Been thinking all week on a prompt from Lisa this past Monday, a new quadrille idea (dVerse 44 word poem) to include, this time around, the word “coax” and I really just had nothin’.

But then when I got home tonight I gave it another thought and suddenly remembered something that I had written quite a number of years ago (30 plus now) but could never find the copy of over all that time and so many moves, but something that had gotten a compliment, back then, from a well known, well published local poet and professor who frequented the cigar shop my fiancé managed and who agreed to take a moment to read after I convinced Danielle to ask him the big ask, if he would be so kind.

Now, I still have never found that copy but tonight some of it came to me, including the lead in of the title (I always remember that) so I thought to revisit and rework it then as best I could and it was a short bit, certainly one that could fit a quadrille.

So, my altered version (including “coax” replacing “feel” and meeting a 44) but still there in spirit and pretty close, I think, to the original.

The compliment from him, by the way, written in pencil at the bottom of the poem? He said he thought that it was complete.

That was pretty big.

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First

A girl leaned older

Outside the store

holding up a wall with a bent knee left foot

and a cigarette with a right hand lilt

and a waking sudden me

with both

through a smoke clouds glance  

coaxing me to something  

I didn’t know

The Sound and Shapes of Stars (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments on The Sound and Shapes of Stars (poem)

So, a new prompt from Laura at dVerse Poets is to get Chaucerian with a Roundel. This is something I’m sure I would remember if I were to be transported back to my College days, and Doc Sipple and Doc Bowers but then, in that transporting back, I would most surely get distracted and totally forget the task at hand and forget about those classes and lessons.

But here, in the now?

Circling back to the 14th Century: Though we often associate the Roundel with Swinburne, his was a 19th century deviation because it is to Chaucer that we owe this poetry style, (as well as the iambic pentameter and the ‘rime royal’).

Thus we distinguish the Chaucerian Roundel from all other forms as well as from The Rondel and Rondeau. And by now you’ve guessed that our poetry today is to be written as Chaucer outlines:

Poetry Style:

  • 13 lines
  • 3 stanzas divided into 3 lines (tercet); 4 lines (quatrain) 6 lines (sestet)
  • rhyme scheme: A B1 B2/a b A B1/a b b A B1 B2
  • usually 10 syllables per line as iambic pentameter

As is evident from the above there are only 2 rhymes to the scheme, and once you have the first 3 lines, it repeats in two refrains so the poem is not too challenging!

Ok, now I will beg to differ on the “not too challenging” but?

So I went to where I’ve been on a few things somewhat recently and hope I kept to task Laura.

As to Doc Sipple and Doc Bower? Sorry I’m late, I was a bit distracted.

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The Sound and Shapes of Stars

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

of twilight verses and star choruses those

.

A menagerie of lighted point shapes stabled

fed above clouds of my head on clear eves

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

.

They crow and bubble and roar bark soundings

star shapes of animal comfort arms outstretched

to pet and grasp and sing at time’s knowing

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

singing songs in boy head of choruses those

Of Aunts and Thank You’s

by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments on Of Aunts and Thank You’s

“Steve, I have some news” Beck said as I poked my head in the living room to her on the Beck couch to say “Hi” after what had been a frustrating but finally muddled through Friday.

“Aunt Anne passed away”

I was going to joke about something totally silly in my poking corners of living rooms with sisters on couches and then …

… pause … “Oh no … no” and I flashed to the late 90’s almost 00’s and felt guilty, immediately, as I hadn’t talked to Aunt Anne in too long.

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There were thank you cards that I would never send for wedding gifts I never kept (though there were a couple I would like to have, that fully loaded tool box filled with shit I would never need or know how to use for one) and feel guilty of for the longest of time and there was paperwork eventually that said the magic had passed well before its time or thank you card expectations suddenly no longer a thing, plus divorce numbers in graphs and charts and over multiple demographics helped me explain, painfully, fast endings and also just being lazy and hurt.

“Hey what time is it?”

“It’s now and you still haven’t sent those thank you cards and, oh, try again sometime, maybe, on this whole marriage thing if you can or wish?” Another thought entirely there, and a nonstarter.

And then there was Aunt Anne.

I needed a place, a spot, a wherever that wasn’t this whatever now, I needed, really, to just run away.

Cue Aunt Anne and Uncle Don and Florida sun and unintended but welcome beaches and Mouse dreams. Yes, I went to the beach and Yes, I worked for the Mouse, even wore tights and big ass floppy shoes and baggy shorts and plastic heads on the weekends.

I know, kinky huh? Just minus the soft light and candles and knotted rope.

She offered me a room, in a welcome home when I was at a loss as to what to do after my unexpected sideways step replete with those Thank You cards I never sent that I kept in a box on a new nightstand as a reminder of my lacking’s but also of my refusals (that was my justification anyway).

But Aunt Anne and Uncle Don and that huge living room where I would sit, cross-legged watching TV with them and commenting together on new shared favorite shows as a part of the family still sits cross-legged with me, along with remembrances of Benny the Cat who catted along with me to this new stead and who Aunt Anne, to her sure consternation, and unneeded pressure, kept an extra eye for “Hey that’s Stephen’s cat, keep an extra eye or i’ll never sleep and then be forced to hurt you … “

My cats have always had that effect.

We’re all, obviously, older now, shit catches up eventually as it will, as it does as it must but there are Aunt Anne’s and Uncle Don’s along the way who give you place, comfort, friendship, if you are lucky enough, a place to lay your head and regroup and even go to the beach or wear big ass plastic heads on the weekends (no, not in a kinky way … freakin’ wierdo’s) and breathe for just a moment.

Lubs Aunt Anne.

Whirly Whirl Anxious Days (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry5 Comments on Whirly Whirl Anxious Days (poem)

New Quadrille prompt this week at dVerse poets from Whimsygizmo, that dVerse 44 worder to include just one word.

The word this time around?

“Whirl”

Whimsy’s prompt is here

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Whirly Whirl Anxious Days     

It hovers, floats

above

with

Birds

it fast circles a drowning

swirling

Pool

down

to the depths

realizing sea monsters

it

Gigs

a carousel’s spin

it

rides overwhelming  

Wind

all in a blur

of a many

Whirl

curling fear’s toes

in anxiety’s

anxious days

Paper Pilot (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on Paper Pilot (poem)

So for a Tuesday Poetics at dVerse Poets Lisa / Li talks of getting Crafty.

Dictionary.com gives these 3 options as definitions of craftsmanship:
the art or skill of a craftsperson.
the quality of being well-crafted or well-built.
the product or result of skilled labor or craft.

Another site gives craft three meanings:
an object made with skill
a vehicle for traveling on water or through air
an individual who makes objects in a skilled way.

Your challenge today is to use one or more of the definitions of craft or craftspersonship that have been given and write a poem in any format or length you choose.

So I thought, then, to crafting Paper Airplanes and just kind of flew along for a bit.

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Paper Pilot

It started with a blank stories sheet

that began all

folded in half

the top bent in never quite matching tri corners

then

to a point

made about flight

and escaping into the sky

of mind

if only to try

and think why

not

where Pilot would sit

in thoughts of finding a breeze  

maybe reserved for the kites

from a sprinting giggling hillside

with pretty painted wind flushed chests

and colorful tails

but no strings to hold this flight

Pilot just hoping

it might alight, soar on its own

before a new crumpled ball

added

in a quiet crashing pile

underneath

them all

till …

A folded blank sheet

new

from a fresh ream of paper

another that started

all stories

of flights

maybe this one

with newly engineered tale,

one of its own,

something folded extra aero

dynamic

might do the trick

of flight

this time

Molting Verse (a rengay poem with David B)

by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments on Molting Verse (a rengay poem with David B)

David, of The Skeptic’s Kaddish, reached out to me and asked if I would like to work a poetry Rengay with him.

Now this is something I hadn’t done before, a Rengay, a call and response sort of thing that has a base in Haiku. That’s here for definition.

But the fact that he thought of me for such?

Waaaaay cool.

And the time it took, over a couple of weeks? Cooler still as it just paced itself along with that time and with life thrown in for the extend.

So to a Rengay then and one of renewal …

Molting Verse

(sjf)
pinfeather words flitted
shed old skin to be more spry
to fly, tomorrow

(db)
curled deep in borrowed burrow
 African   rock    python   molts

(sjf)
and the earth itself
found lost hopes in the middle
ground thoughts in the sky

(db)
upon dawn
dreams barely linger —
me? half-known

(sjf)
half dreamt full dirt … then … then
but now new story out in the blue

(db)
soot-dark quill amends
fluttering fledgling fable—
shadow dries in breeze

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Molting Verse

pinfeather words flitted
shed old skin to be more spry
to fly, tomorrow

curled deep in borrowed burrow
 African rock python molts

and the earth itself
found lost hopes in the middle
ground thoughts in the sky

upon dawn
dreams barely linger —
me? half-known

half dreamt full dirt … then … then
but now new story out in the blue

soot-dark quill amends
fluttering fledgling fable—
shadow dries in breeze

Cheers David

Raven’s Night (poem revisit for this Halloween Night)

by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments on Raven’s Night (poem revisit for this Halloween Night)

Well, time to close out a week or so then, a week or so’s worth of creepy-esque things of mine leading up to this Halloween Night.

I had already planned on finishing up the week with this one but, as a true Halloween night might call and cliche for, it is actually wildly windy out there in this Albany, NY area right now, with unrelenting cold drizzly bone seeping wet, evident all day foreboding an extra blustery, chillingly dark night and most apropos too as it was a similar night I wrote about here, in this one, for the Raven just before he came to made famous.

The post explains a bit more but. simply, to write a prequel to a literary character’s story …

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January 24, 2024

So, at a newly found for me “Poet’s Pub” of a site, dVersepoets.com, I came across a post that had a prompt to write what it refers to as a poetic Quadrille, a 44 word poem (not including the title) but in this prompt it said you need include the word “pinch” in any way you saw fit.

This I did and it is the most recent post in the Attic here, “Don’t Pinch Me”.

Well, came across another poem prompt yesterday that asked that you write a prequel for a character from literature.

Write a poem that is a prequel to a particular character from a nursery rhyme, Aesop’s fable, book , mythology etc.  

And the responses that I have read thus far to this prompt are so imaginative and colorful and haunting that I can’t wait to finish them all.

But for me, after running through a few possibilities in my head, I thought to Edgar Allen Poe and the Raven and of the Raven himself.

.

Raven’s Night

I am not dead nor demon to be read or written of

I implore you open your door

or window

shutter’s curtains

flitting

with welcome inside out air

and any manner of candlelit care

with which to let me see your floor

please

to just walk that floor

or even alight a door

that I implore

again

you

to open

outside no place for me tonight

in weary last vestige of now blustery light

that casts shadows that scare me from flight

and I don’t scare

for I am Raven

confused of crow brethren

curse-ed cousins

but stronger than they even as they crow foot in murder of friends

what they needs simple

with simple’s ends

while I seek a just solitude and to depart nights

now

tired of taking flight in dark

reputation

just a me to be me but I am scared of he me

and what I no longer want see

in the dim

even eve’s with path clear in crisp moonlight

but worse on nights like  

these

this

this one

this night at hand

and I see your light

window

harks

a place maybe to land

and

I will make amends for this slight into

your solitude

.

For I am Raven

I can build things from sticks and stones

peck and grab and stab and stack and foot place just right

or even

build things from thoughts and words alone

to assist you

in candlelight

I just don’t want to flight

in dark

any longer

and

not this night

in most simple order

I just need walk a floor

or alight a door

allow

please

me bring inside

at least

for

this just

one night

Ricky & I (short story – beginnings / revisit for Halloween week)

by Stephen J Frankenberry3 Comments on Ricky & I (short story – beginnings / revisit for Halloween week)

And another, my second to last one, for this week and me revisiting some creepy or creepy adjacent things of mine on a daily for this Halloween week.

Back to April of last year.

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April 27, 2024

Ricky & I

We watched them warily, Ricky and I, and held back at a safe distance eventually going the other direction down the other side of the street so as to be even safer still as the older high school kids toilet papered and egged houses ahead of us as some sort of shit rolls downhill repayment for what we couldn’t possibly understand or imagine might be going on behind closed doors for them at home (I would learn years later, of some of them, in the news). We just knew that we had a short window now where we hadn’t quite aged out of our trick or treating, something evidenced in the fact that we were already starting to get lazy in our costuming, always just hobo’s now, something that wouldn’t get more creative again until my college years but on those nights the “candy” was usually cheap beer and girls, another thing that couldn’t possibly be understood or imagined or even cared about then, we just still had our sweet teeth and some lazily costumed possible final attempts, this year, maybe next, to satisfy them for free and we didn’t need any of these toilet papering egging assholes seeing us and ruining it.

Ricky and I had become pretty adept at avoiding these guys in our neighborhood after school and on the weekends, thankfully we didn’t have to figure out any extra avoidance techniques during the school day just yet – we still had this one more year before we shared the halls with them, well at least the ones who hadn’t graduated yet, though Ricky and I were afraid that the ones that were supposed to graduate out might be held back and still be around for our first year of High School, a would be hell if they had anything to do with it.

No, it was just after school and the weekends and oh, the school bus that we all rode together though at least that interminable time was relatively short as interminable goes (ok, that was kinda interminable all of the time, daily) but we could always depend on our driver, Missus D, to have our backs and put the fear of Missus D in them if need be, sitting up front and telling her that Moms said Hi with their latest batch of sugar cookies and never forgetting her at Christmas time with cards from each of us and small finely, meticulously wrapped in wax paper offerings were definitely to our advantage.

But on this Halloween night, though we did our best to measure wary fear with still being able to hit up the neighborhood candy houses, our usually successful avoidance attempts weren’t good enough. Seems Tommy Whitmore, who had also taken to calling himself “Jax” around that time, don’t know why, maybe he just needed another name that wasn’t the “Tommy!!!” he heard yelled, screamed, slapped, surrendered to at home, must have seen us behind he and his boy’s mean spirits under the Dowling’s porch light and came down and across the street to wait just outside the light’s reach, that hard circle line of light on one side and dark on the other right before their garage, and, with hands on his hips and a stupid grin, Tommy said,

“Hey boys, how ya doin’, and how ya doin’ in those candy bags of yours tonight?”

“We’re good Tommy, just leave us be, we’re not bothering you.”

“Hey, it’s “Jax”, but you ARE bothering me, bothering US” Tommy said with a hint of malice “just by being you, and you haven’t even offered me anything from your bags of goodies” as he did a grab while his boys hung just outside that light’s ring in the Dowling’s driveway giggling vacantly and even more stupidly than Tommy’s dumb ass grin.

“Hey, those are ours!!’ Ricky yelled, straight backed but for only an instant.

“Oh, he speaks, on his own, the redhaired one” as Ricky’s spine shrunk. “No, these are ours now and we’re also going to take you two on a ride.”

“No Tommy …” and a glare with a raised hand’s intent “No … Jax … we have to get home, we’re not getting in any cars with you. We were done anyway, take our bags and just leave us be.”

“Well that just ain’t gonna happen you two …”

Then came a rush of wind sweeping past and around our heads … something usually reserved for family stories at backyard get togethers or at funerals when Ricky’s extended family would arrive, and the strangest of strange things would happen, in a surreal happiness, it was fast, a blur, made the ground shake just enough to unsettle your feet, make you feel a little askew. We knew what, who this was, Me and Ricky, but Tommy and his boys didn’t.

I told you that Ricky and I had become pretty adept at avoiding these guys and we had, but it was more, sometimes a not just protecting ourselves, but protecting them.

“No Tommy …”

“It’s Jax!”

“No Jax, not tonight”

“You gonna defy me, you useless pieces of shit, no that ain’t happenin’. Right boys?”

But the ground shook some more, the air trembled again, whooshed past and around us again, as air shouldn’t tremble like that and I stood my now shaky ground.

“Not now”

“And it’s Jax!!!” he yelled

“I wasn’t talking to you Tommy”

I said to Ricky “Not now” but his shrunk spine grew, not a one of simple stand up defiance, but just grew.

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I met Ricky through Mom get togethers in new neighborhood get togethers. Let’s introduce ourselves with kids to break the ice but really kids being just an excuse for Moms to drink wine on an early Saturday. I had seen Ricky on the ballfield in my new digs, after having moved from Baltimore to now Pittsburgh, he was a monster. His throws from his shortstop spot practically took the first baseman’s glove off and we weren’t even in high school yet.

“Do you play?” he asked me.

“I pitch”

“We could use one of those on our team. You any good?”

And that was it, I confounded him with my off the table curve that I shouldn’t have been throwing at that age and he tried to take the glove off of anyone who had the misfortune of playing first base. Instant friends.

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Friendships can be curious things. They might start with Moms using you as pawns for a glass of wine, or two, on a Saturday afternoon, they can be responses to what you don’t know yet of the evils of the world behind closed doors and you group, join forces, even if it’s only in a force of two or they can be things that were just supposed to happen, like Ricky with a rifle of an arm that make first basemen regret they play the game and you note, Ricky. He and I became a pair of buds linked through and through until, well, we just weren’t.

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“Not now”

“What not now you little prick?!”

“Ricky is my friend”

“And?”

“You don’t want to do this, he’s not liking you right now”

“What? Little redhead here?”

“Please just let it go Tommy” 

“It’s Jax!!” (and there was that raised hand again)

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The other curious thing about friendships is that there are those that are just cursory things, friendships you recall for just being a “friendship”, where you might call each other, out of the blue, to check in years later, heard you had a kid, how is the better half, what’s her name again but then there was Ricky and his secrets, his family’s secrets, our secrets then.

////////////////////////////////////////

His spine grew instead of a backing away shrink, unnaturally so, to four times his height and his red hair fired until it rivaled the sun right on that hard line of light and dark in the Dowling’s driveway and he shone, glowed and towered Tommy and his voice changed making any Tommy attempt at inspiring fear seem weak and puny “YOU WILL NOT MESS WITH MY FRIEND!” followed by a simple backhand slap.

And that was it, Tommy, not Jax, that new name nonsense ended that night I figured (though all these years later I hope not, that was his one, lone attempt at a “me” thing in his so lonely, pained world – Hey Jax, heard you had some kids, how is that better half of yours I don’t know, I’m sure she is beautiful, how have you all fared?) slunk away from out of the dust bins across the street and amid the scattering of idiots he called pals.

“You’re done aren’t you Ricky?

“Yeah, gotta go now”

“Dammit Ricky, I have no one else and I don’t even want anyone else as my friend.”

“I know, me neither, but I gotta go”

“I know”

And then, there was that rush of wind again, picking up leaves and dust and moving earth and all it’s leavings around in a small twister.

“Hey Missus D, thought that might be you”

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m ok I guess, thank you for keeping an eye but …”

“Don’t worry, you’ll see him again, Ricky’s got a good heart, you know that, but he and my sister need to find another place now, to be safe, try and start again, heard in the wind that there might be a good spot in the mountains near the coast, some small towns of like kind, until Ricky learns how to control things. Plus, you’ll see him again ‘cause he always hated that he couldn’t hit your curveball, he’ll be practicing … Sugar cookies tomorrow?”

“Maybe the next day Missus D, gotta give Mom the head’s up”

“Ok, and maybe an offering wrapped finely in wax paper? At Christmas?”

“Of course, as always”