God, I’m onto you. Don’t turn away, bashful, having been caught mid-scheme, mid-prank, mid-man-in-the-machine. I can see the calculus of this adventure; penetrate the long distance loss of this investment in futures with no promise of a return. Not a phone call, not a lawn chair, not even the hum of no one on the other line, receiver hanging there waiting for hello operator? Operation? Intervention? Hmmm… The flamingo’s angled pink plastic and drip of the dry pool in this David Lynch set of a situation. She didn’t scream! She won’t! The wolf was wearing a nightgown, bonnet and serving tea. It was the perfect alibi: An accountant and a Nobel Prize. An autographed edition of the whole thing: A crowd, people waving, hands cupped like immortal tulips with royal disdain. They had all come out for it; Even the wolf. She won’t die! They gasped! They sighed! They raised the storied handkerchief to their collective eye. I that is, I didn’t and now I’ve reached the finish of my peach cobbler and raised the checkered napkin to my lips. It was delicious! Don’t hide: I’ve seen the lemon lights; the stove still lit. I’ve peaked around the corner and seen the kitchen with the chef still in it. Oh he’s a master, with a sense of wit. The dish he conjured last time had timing and a note in it. Like a fortune, forsook of cookie, but just as fun: The nursery rhyme, the mouse shouting, the hickory and the wok. I’ve come full circle, right over the moon, and drawn the whole portrait in the cradle of the silver spoon you left me, bent on its never ending course: Its woosh and falling star; It’s tale of comet fire. I’m determined to thank you this time. The birthday candle’s lit. I won’t be put off. Yes you’ve turned off the lights. Okay you’ve conjured a storm. Alright the man with the gun’s scary and so is the loud horn of the revolutionary swarm. But I received it. I ate your invention. I’m turning pink with potential and the private helicopter’s been cleared to land. I’ll stand back, but I won’t give in. I’m waiting by the backstage entrance, crouched, in formation, my piggy back ready to clasp you as soon as you cross over. Dad, I miss you. The pancakes were perfect: The syrup still catching goblins last night and shaking the morning smells of light. This time I’ll catch your big shadow in the driveway, before it slips out, weighty as a Cadillac: The Fisherman cooking that fresh catch who won’t return from sea. You forgot your coat. And your punch-line is moored at the door.
Laura Marie is a writer who writes.