Problematic Mindsets

6. The Dancing Leaves

"Hon, I'm sorry you're having such a rough time at the moment. But you know that you need to get out and find people your age with the same kind of mind you have. You know this. I've told you this before."

Margie is a fifty-nine year old woman who uses sass and sarcasm as her foul language. She already has pure white hair, but doesn't complain about it. And she has a very slender face with big brown eyes you'd find in a teddy bear. She's a little petite woman with warm wrinkled hands, and has a stern,  worn-down look stitched on her face all day long. Margie (sometimes called Marg), or Margaret Mayford, is a manager at a cafe. It's a simple cafe, and I like it because it's not crowded but earns quite a bit of money like it should. And the place is always clean. Margie is a clean person, just like me.

By the back of the cafe and near the the put out fire place, I'm siting here with a small cup of coffee in a fairly comfortable chair. To say the least, the chairs at Marg's Coffee are pretty and decorative but they are comfortable because of the thick cushion on the seat and the thinner cushion where your back rests. They're striped with all sorts of browns, tans and reds. The chair itself is metal and is a brown coffee-bean color.
Margie sits down in a seat next to me. She has on an olive green blouse with brown dress pants. Her hair is in a very loose braid and flows down her left shoulder like a stream of white water. It looks good on her. She looks at me and I can tell that she wants to have a good visit. The ones that we have one rainy days. The days with violent winds and thunder that yells; days when lighting hits the earth and bullies it, when the thunder cheers it on. Yeah, those kind of days.

Now she may be old and sassy and maybe a little mean at times, but Margie has been there for me since Ashlyn left. And when Ash left, I was suffocating myself with my own sorrow. Does that make any sense?

If you don't know what that feels like, please take the time and think of this;

You stand in a hole that is three thousand feet under the surface from any kind of help possible. Then someone decides to put a hose in the hole you're standing in, and turn the water on. The water is slowly and painfully filling up, and you call for help but no one hears you. There's no point in trying. Then another hose is stuck in, more water comes through. Another hose, more water. More an more hoses, more and more water. Now you're drowning and dying and coughing up water, but the people at the top don't even know it because you're so far down below the surface. They can't help. And then you end up finding out that you're the one who stuck the hoses in the three thousand foot hole. You're the one who turned the water on. You drowned yourself. And it doesn't matter what the water is in reality, the point is that you did it.

Well I drowned myself when she left. I put those hoses in, and turned the water on. The water was muddy. It was cold, too.
"Parker."
My head snapped to look at her a little too fast.
"I was thinking about drowning,"I say. She tells me to continue. And I look at the entrance door and told her about my analogy. About the hole three thousand feet deep and the hoses and the water. I told her about the dying and then the finding out it was the ones self part. She says it's a very creative analogy. I agree.
I take a big gulp of the coffee Marg poured me. It's warm and sweet, the aftertaste tastes like her Vanilla Pie. I'm not going to say it's to die for because I don't believe you should die for anything; not even a magic spoon that has hands that claps and has a mouth that can sing opera.
I pay then say thanks to Margie for the talk and the great coffee.

The wind flows in my face, hitting my my nose and my cheeks and chin. It whispers something, and I let it guide me through the chilly day. My eyes observe the trees
The leaves are a piercing solid green with spots of yellow. I've always loved the originality of leaves. Each one is different no matter which one you pick up.
I see a place to sit in the City's Towne Square Center. It's a decent place by a waterfall, probably electronically programmed, with barely anyone around. I clomp on over with my feet leading the way, and take a seat at the ledge of the waterfall.

The wind blows furiously against the tree branches, making them thrash and sway. I watch them, the millions of them. The wind blows and the dancing leaves start their performance.
In compete and utter awe I watch them dance and turn and twist with ease and perfection. Sitting and staring at them in ecstasy, I watch until their performance is over. When my feet thought it was time, they lift me up, and I walk away still smiling and in awe.