Article 24

Penelope WeissIn the Garden He asked me to pick some oregano for the moussaka. I wasn’t sure what was oregano and what was weed.  I smelled it. It seemed like oregano. Still, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps its faintness  was an allusion to a fragrance I remembered from the last time he asked me to pick a special herb for dinner.  I came in with a basketful. He chopped it up. I danced a little jig under the pear tree.    I Don’t Think Much It was snowing hard. We walked over to the pond and the finches. “I don’t think much of humanity,” she said.   The snow was falling harder. We kissed goodbye. “I don’t think much,” I said as she got in her car and drove away.  I slammed the front door and kicked off my boots. “I don’t think much,” I said as I stumbled into the kitchen.  I drank six cold beers without stopping. “I don’t think much” I said before I passed out.    Driving at Night Trees hallucinate my vision  as I drive through the wooded roads at night.  The great trees strike a vein in my memory. I feel their blood transfusing into me.   There is no sound, only my headlights  and the illuminated manuscript of life.    Penelope Weiss grew up in New York City and now lives in Shrewsbury, Vermont. Storiana,  her collection of stories, was published by Casa de Snapdragon Publishing and is available  on Amazon.     previous page&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp contents&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp next page