I saw Jesus napping in a hammock in my backyard. A transistor radio lay on his chest. A baseball game was on. Orioles and Yankees.
I stepped softly past the hammock, slipped around the pond (frogs croaked), and into a field of flowers.
I picked three fistfuls of bluebells and put them in a jar. I walked to my neighbor’s house. The shades were pulled.
(Her son was buried yesterday. No one came.)
I set the jar on the porch.
(A blackbird limped across the porch, gasping with each halting step. One wing was broken. It stood still, trembling, uncertain. I kneeled on the step, watching, a vigil to keep. The sun was slowly sinking down. The silent bird shuddered, fluffed its feathers, rose on its toes, lifted both wings, and flew away.)
I walked back to my yard.
The hammock was empty.
The radio was on.
The Orioles won.
Check out Paula’s three flower photographs on the home page.