“We are not committed to this or that. We are committed to the nothing-in-between…whether we know it or not.”
There was thunder yesterday, hail. Rain beat down in sheets to flood the grass and gutters. I was driving along the parkway like a fool. Today the sky breaks blue and clouds scale the butte like dragons, slippery and serpentine, some white, others black, mostly grey. They lick the face of the hills climbing down or move along the ridge and it’s spring suddenly with grass thick from snow melt, daffodils and grape hyacinth, and everywhere the scent of blooming plum.
Grandma said thunder was the sound of dwarfs playing bowls inside the mountain. She said if the sky had a patch of blue big enough to make a Dutch man a pair of pants, it wouldn’t rain.
When she swore, it was by the twins, Castor and Pollux. I had two theories about this as a child: one, that she was referring to my Grandfather “Jimmy” or; two, Grandma was invoking Jiminy Cricket from Pinocchio. However, in any instance, the “J” was softened to a long “Y” for reasons I didn’t comprehend and she shook her fist with more determination than damnation. It was many years before I discovered that she was swearing by Gemini, the Dioscuri, an ancient oath adopted in some sublime fashion I cannot explain, yet find delightful.
When we walked together, she pointed out different plants and told me their names. They all looked alike to me, all green, as things do to a child.