Sunday, April 17, 2011

Santa Monica Mountains on a Sunday afternoon

When people used to ask the little girl where she came from, she just lifted her index finger and pointed to the blue sky. One day the sky was gray.

Her Spanish words were skinny and thristy (y tenian piojos) and her English only filled up a small  paper bag. How would she learn to  fill silence with color?

She told people she wanted to die at 86. Then, she went to a thrift store and got herself a green chair.

Tell me the story again, you know, the one about the the little roadrunner that stopped.

Wind and plants talking to each other. They left her out of the conversation.