So What Once she chased experience, peered in corners of dark closets with remorseless diligence, probing at frailties, fingering needs like coloured beads, red for passion, purple for weeping, black for loss threaded next to white for nothing and yellow for terror. But where was anger. There was none, who could afford it. She plucked cherries making memories to store like staples, tucking acquisitions into brain pockets for future digestion like a chipmunk storing nuts safe for the winter of old age when she would gloat and stack them one on one saying she had missed nothing. But with the racing years, stored treasure lost its lustre, became tarnished when exposed to the light of conscience, became fragile with scrutiny ground to powder with excuses. Then was lost to even the most diligent of recall. Blown from the brain like chaff from the threshing machine leaving only to-day and to-day and to-day. |
Betty Ponder |