The friendly speck

The spot...moved. A simple dark dot on the linoleum floor was swaying; back and forth and side-to-side.
Maybe I should turn on some music...but it seemed to be hearing something I couldn't.
The edges of darkness blurred as it started inching toward me. An inch or so in diameter, I had time to consider as it approached.
It would pause often to continue the slow swaying to and fro. I detected a hint of sound as it did so; as if someone was humming under their breath. I was alone but for the dot.
I lay in bed, watching its slow and halting progress. What did it want with me? I saw no mouth that it could nibble on me with...
So I let it climb up my bed frame...it seemed to wrap itself around the post; so there was substance...not just shadow.
It swayed and blurred as it crossed the checkered sheet and...started for the open window. The curtain fanned over the bed as the wind pushed and pulled it playfully.
Suddenly, the little black dot stood (or rather stretched upward) to its full height and let the wind catch it in its current. It went swinging out my bedroom window. I am touched with a sort of longing that I will never know what it was or how it got here. I never reached out my hand to pet it ever so gently as I so wanted to. Now it is gone, as a bit of pollen out of tune with the autumn season.

Ink Showers Make Spring Flowers

The doorbell is ringing. The echo carries down the hall. I cling to the corner
and peer around.
He carries...
A note.
I hold my breath as it rings again. But he waits no more and slides it into a crack under the door and steps down. His face is emotionless.
I was nothing
I was nothing
I am nothing
My fingers creep over my face, shaking.
A car engine revs and gravel crunches, the dog barking behind it, unsure of her job.
My home. It is home no longer.
A distaste for the button on the outside of the door,
A hatred for the chimes in the hallway,
I cannot use those steps again.
I remember the note.
The white lined paper crinkles in the wind. Paper is stronger than it looks. It holds words.
Words will change my life
and my words will change yours.
I rise from my slippery seat on the floor and make my way to the kitchen and take a cinnamon poptart from the box in the pantry. I break off a piece and feel a little better.
I feel the wind through the window screens and the smell of green leaves and spring flows through the house. And rain.
A droplet hits my shoulder as I stand by the sink window.
I want the words to smear. I want them to run through and off the paper as they should drop to my feet.
I want the soil to absorb the thin slice of tree and turn it into a daffodil.
Because there is nothing that could possibly be written there that is any more use than a pretty yellow flower.
I will turn those smears of ink into flowers deeply rooted in my garden.
But I will never know if I don't look.
Daffodils
Tulips
Tigerlillies...black ink...