Cecilia’s middle son drew a picture of a turkey to decorate the door for Thanksgiving. The turkey had a mustache and wore a tux. “Why a tux?” Cecilia asked. Henry shrugged and Cecilia let it go. She was busy making pumpkin pie and cranberry relish for the big dinner.
As the guests arrived the next day, the first question everyone asked was, “Why a tux?” Henry’s Grandma said she liked a turkey who knew how to dress. His Grandpa said, “What a stuffed shirt.”
Cecilia said, “The best thing about this turkey tux is no one’s talking politics.”
The year the US turned three hundred, Marcy traded lace for leather boots with the cobbler, whose daughter was getting married. Handy with a thread and needle, Marcy shared her flea market stall with her friend, Anne, who wove linen and wool.
During thirty years of a government shut down, the country had split into separate economic and political entities. The original thirteen colonies loosely allied under a charter to pursue a more perfect union. The Midwest showed folks how to be “Minnesota Nice.” Washington pursued politics as usual while the rest got on with the politics of the practical.
La Calavera Catrina strolled in the park on La Dia de Muertos. She passed stands of tamales where patrons and proprietors waved. A small boy ran to her and held out a sugar skull. “Senora, for you.” Catrina’s skeletal face brightened under the wide-brimmed hat she wore.
She plucked a flower from the hat and held it out for him. “Muchacho, muchas gracias. I wish you a long life. Live it. All the generosity in your heart, give it away and it will grow. Hold it close and it will wither.” She took his hand; he smiled; they strolled on.
They sloughed into DC for the inauguration. They meant to get there sooner, but the polar vortex swept down and froze the engines on their hogs. They took a bus to DC. Man, they were jazzed. Trump would “Make America Misogynist Again.” Overturning Roe was a down payment. He’d keep his promise to protect women, “Whether they like it or not.”
Tex, the organizer, noticed there were no chicks in the crowd. Ladies, way too delicate for this weather. He checked his dating app. Every woman’s profile said, “Not interested. Back in 2029, maybe.” WTF?
The day before the election results come in, I’m anxious. I shuffle and create a spread, laying Tarot cards on the counter. The High Priestess represents my question. This card symbolizes divine law. The future is hidden, but intuition can be a flashlight in the dark. Which way to go? Towards integrity or expedience? It is an uneasy choice.
The Tower and the Ace of Wands (reversed) suggest a past where change has been postponed. We struggle to transform an outmoded system. It will take longer than one election cycle to develop the collective awareness required to come to consensus. In the short term, established institutions will remain in place.
How does one cope? The Hanged Man suggests a pause, a rebirth, and a reassertion of the feminine principle. Integration comes from a process of sifting facts, feelings, and thoughts together. Can we do it? The Six of Pentacles (reversed) points to money selfishly misused, an environment that must change. The Emperor is the X-factor, the unexpected outcome. The card represents rule by force under patriarchal institutions. If this is the election’s outcome, I hope we unite to change direction and reach for a different future under the rainbow card.
Immigrants are the lifeblood of America. They bring hope, energy, and optimism. Different languages and cultures enrich this country. We’re better together.
It’s a story that’s been told before. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “We all came in on different ships, but we’re all in the same boat now.” I heard it in a Malvina Reynolds song.
Most people don’t remember that song. The sentiment has drowned in a sea of anti-immigrant vitriol that’s threatening our most precious import. And here you thought it was silicon chips or fast fashion. Don’t be fooled. We need a path, not a wall.
The artist is not in sight, but dinner is waiting for her. The long thread that holds her web to a fence on one side and a hedge on the other stretches at eye level. We bend to avoid it. We take care because we can. Because we have time to notice.
We are not running from war, wildfires, earthquakes, floods. We are not doom scrolling, furious, hunkered down. Instead, we appreciate the utile beauty of a spider web. It has survival value and strength, a work of art glistening with dew in the sun. A reminder of tenacious life.
We kept the dogs away. The severed wing lay at the corner, iridescent, shiny, black. How could it happen, a crow’s wing but no crow. Was there an epic battle with a hawk? Was the wing collateral damage? We wandered on, dogs incurious, my husband and I trying to solve this puzzle.
“Evidence. I want a picture.”
So we went back. The clues were obvious. There was no blood. The dogs had no interest. On further examination, a bit of fabric, synthetic feathers, the wing a costume piece. A case of overactive imagination; the best and worst of being human.
Let’s hear it for a different kind of war hero. Tim O’Brien tells war like it is through characters like Rat Kiley, who saves a buddy one day and another day shoots himself a ticket home through the foot. You know that book, The Things They Carried. The hero carries many things into and out of war. A photo to inspire, to torture, to raise false hopes. A first aid kit for when a grenade blows a buddy sky high. An army manual to list the protocols that caution against feeling. Read that book, or reread it. For the heroes.
Water coursed through Rusalka, around her slippery body, into her memory. The pagans called her a sweet thing, a beautiful maiden, a boon to forests and fields. Handmaid of Spring, she spread life-giving water to the crops.
Baptismal waters washed away that myth. There was no room for Rusalka in the new religion. She was demoted, maligned, branded a seductress. Some still believed she brought water to the fields as always. They became a minority, old thinking, out of date. God’s people cursed Rusalka. They didn’t deny her existence. They changed her story.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 