Betty is cutting hair, sharing her new approach to life. “It has to do,” she pauses to make wavy snips in the air with her scissors, “with ignoring angry birds at Easter.”
I sit up straighter, wish I had pen and paper. I don’t want to get this wrong.
“Angry birds? “
“Yes, you learn to block everything out. Like the other day I was driving to work and had everything so blocked I was having an above the body experience.” She twirls me in the chair, presses down with her foot and I am elevated. Floated, even. Except for those scissors about to take out my eyebrows.
“But then a black Honda cut me off, so I lost the zen moment. At the corner of 5th and Grand.”
Federally protected ducks. Loaned images. How do you give an image back?
Every time Frankie stops by he tells me:
We go back to the Indian Wars in New England.
Tell me again who we are.
I brace for the bad instruction, the omitted fine line. And you, still teaching the difference between a watch and a warning, when will you give up? I’m easily given in to stalled speeds and my own planetary set.