Remember ole George at my old house/La’s current house? Remember when Em met my pal?
And I told you how he’s flowering, right?
Yo. Flowering ain’t the word. You can’t even see the top of it in this photo because of the brightness of the sky, but it towers over the roof of the house. (Lala’s standing on a raised section of the neighbor’s garden.)
Also crazy, but this is all mine: Last night a woman called, stating that there were miners drinking in front of her house. My brain just froze. Miners? All dirty and coal-scuffed, with pick-axes and bronchial coughs?
Jaysus. MINORS. As in juveniles. As in the type of call, word for word, that I get every night. Why my brain made it miners, I’ll never know. Apparently I am ready to live in the 19th century. Spinning wheels and banjos, baybee.
Get a Free Short Story!
Subscribe to get a free copy of Socks for Alex, a Cypress Hollow Short Story, compatible with all devices!