Four front doors down on a cracked and undulating sidewalk with buckets in hand my mother would send my sisters and I, we were five to Mrs. Finky’s house where there grew a huge cherry tree right next to a very modern carport of streamline blue.
She’d answer the door in a caftan of gold brocade holding her orange Pomeranian, Sundance. She’d put him down on the floor as she closed the door saying don’t break the limbs, please don’t break the limbs.
And the cherries would say, come this way.
It was like being inside a magical tent of rubies and wrens and breakable limbs.
The cherries would take our breath away. The cherries would take our breath away.
What if all of the breaths that got taken away throughout your life could come back to you as there you lay dying?
Some things should be shared...art is one of them.