Reflections on the Eighth Week of Spring

 

Spence and I had different weekends. Friday, I flowed with traffic to the Pennwriter's Conference in Pittsburgh. He unclogged the drain in the kitchen sink, got a leak, tightened connections, and broke a fitting. In my first workshop, participants worried about a young woman hyperventilating–staged to show how to give readers engagement, emotion, and experience. Spence drove to Hart's because the cover on his brush hog drive shaft broke. They needed the shaft to determine which replacement. Alone in Marriott's small square pool, I swam diagonal laps. Rain fell while Spence tilled. I ate dinner by a goldfish pond on a sunny patio. Saturday Spence detached the drive shaft and took it to Hart's. They were closed. My “Walk Like a Turkey” won second prize in the short story contest. Rain drenched Spence on his way back from logging. I bought books at the author's tea. Spence installed four new parts in the kitchen drain. They worked, but a different part leaked. At the Mardi Gras party, I exchanged business cards with new friends and admired feathered masks. We discussed Aurora Borealis, rock and roll, and the use of “their” for singular unspecified gender. Sunday Spence moved porch furniture and swept winter dirt. I did yoga to jazz ballads and listened to dramatic flash fiction recitations. Spence welcomed me home, asked me not to squint, and snapped my photo.