This is a photo from my camera-phone, taken during my day job at my desk.
My parents take long walks in the country (which is easy to find where they live).
They bring home all sorts of finds. Often times what they bring back to share are photos, which I share here:
This was in my mailbox when I woke up this morning.Dad likes to call this ” Don’t fence me in.”
One spring not too many springs ago, they spent weeks walking railroad tracks which run through similar countryside.They were looking for railroad nails (not spikes). Could they find one with Sherry’s favorite number? And what about one for their other four offspring and six grandkids and two great-grands?
When they found mine, they took it home so Dad could spend a week making a perfect oak square in his wood shop. Careful so as not to blemish the wood, he drilled a hole and then carefully fit the nail into the hole. So as to not blemish the nail-head.
They shipped it to me in a box carefully wrapped in twenty pieces of tissue.
I keep it on my desk at work, which is where I spend the majority of my time. People come in to visit me and remark on the nail. But did I know, they ask, one side of the square has a dent in it. Yes, I sigh, I dropped it.
I’ve started a story with no end, but this has been on my mind lately. The more careful I am, the worse I make things. It’s a self-fulfilling phenomenon.
When I work at writing poetry, if I am careful with my words, I wreck the poetry — drop it on its head from the top of my front porch, onto concrete and watch it bounce down a steep driveway into the path of a Hummer that has to veer across my lawn to avoid a collision.
I love contrary statements. Remember, the more I care about you (and when I say you, I could mean a nail with 56 on its head, or I could mean you, if that doesn’t make you nervous), the more I need to remind myself to be a little more wreckless.