pencils

I’m in a rush. I shove books, marked by pencils sticking out of them into my backpack. I stab myself by accident with a fine point.

Maybe that should be my wake up call. The moment that screams -- enough! You have got to slow down!

No, no wake up. I rub the spot on my hand and remember childhood days when we used to scare ourselves mad with pencil jabs. Ooooh, you’re gonna get led in your blood... you’ll DIE!!

I remember one sleepover night where my friend and I looked through the Medical Encyclopedia to find out if we would, indeed, die. The answer, I have to believe now wrongly interpreted, left us sobbing.

In these drab days of a pathetically unlovely January (Madison, you can disappoint!), I welcome signs of color. Not blood on a finger, no, not that. So what else is there? The one lonely food hut on Library Mall...





Africana! From a continent where the people wear clothes of searing colors and eat foods doused with exotic spices. Or something.

Later, I put on my blackest of black slacks, shirt, sweater and head for the little shop.

The walk adds no color. Of course it doesn’t.