Paper Bouquet

by Heather Chamberlain

In shadows and copperhead skins; through cattails and honey bells, my memory wanders to a warm November day on a walk with my sister and her children. Anoles scatter under our feet. Mushrooms appear one by one, then in fives, then in tens, then in twenties, as we walk deeper and deeper into the swamp. Curiosity overcomes us.

If there be any soul in an animal, it must be in her eyes. But perhaps what they say is true, that animals do not have souls. Well, then it must be that some people contain too much. It overflows from their being through kisses and hugs and is transmitted to their pets by loving touch. Perhaps it is true that not all animals have souls, but not every animal is lucky enough to acquire part of a human heart.

Dirt. It covers your clothes, your arms, your face, your hands…Under your nails is caked grime, probably from as long as a decade ago. Because the more you work, the more dirt there is. And it settles into your skin, into your being, into our furniture, and into our life. And it never goes away though you wash it every day. And the rhythm of our world is dirt; in the hand that holds mine.  

Truth lies sleeping in a brown speckled egg, and then it cracks. And the little bobwhite scurries from its shell and scurries for its life. The bird thrives in the unstable environment. Birth isn’t magical. Incubation is magical. Brown is the life source of all creatures, including man, and we are all slowly sinking in the mud.

Crinkling resonates from the middle pew. Every Sunday, pastor ignores the sound. In the seats surrounding the old man are children with excited eyes. Timeless aren’t the words that are heard, but what lies in the hand of the candy man. Caramels are always sweet. The pastor understands this. Someday, too, I will understand that this slight interruption is justified.