That Girl

I knew that girl was right for me the morning she smacked me with a fly-swatter.  Why she smacked me is not near as interesting as why her hair seems electrified when caught in backlight or why the sound of her voice always makes me feel as though I am on my way up.

The fly-swatter was made of leather.  Handmade by the Amish near Roundup, Montana and without logical reference.

That girl’s voice is made of clear water, green hills, and a dash of warm ocean breeze.  It’s a place where I want to go.

I seek her out when she first wakes, when she is perfectly soft and dreams have gifted her with a smooth optimism, smooth understanding.  I can speak my normal nonsense and she understands me.

And she merely laughs when my cat hisses at her.

When she was gone for a few days, I sent her a selfie of me and my cat.

Not a joke.

One of us missed her fiercely.

And speaking of light, if I stand outside my door, the light issued from the sun requires eight minutes and twenty seconds to reach me.  I sometimes imagine what sort of things might happen in that time.  A flight of geese could lift from the lake and fly to the valley wheat fields.  A footrace might be started and won.  The last dozen leaves might fall from my mayday tree.  A bee could sting me whirl off to perish in the blonde grass. 

But eight minutes and twenty seconds is not near enough time for me to spend with that girl.

I ask for more.

--Mitchell Hegman.