The Wormlips Scrapbook

From where I sit at my newly arranged desk on the third floor I see a mass of purple flowers in the foreground and dense woods just beyond, with a path mown between. Fifty feet into the trees there’s a spot of silver flickering. It’s all I can see of the stream.

Late yesterday I looked out the window and saw Mary, co-landlord with Victor, make her way along the path and disappear around the corner and up the hill. She has severe arthritis and walks with that kind of crutch that wraps around her arms. Every step is labored. An hour later I saw her reappear with a bunch of flowers in her hand. I kept at my cleaning, accompanied by Peter.

A while later I took a break and went out to get my mail. On my doorstep, dropped like pick-up sticks from waist-height, were Mary’s flowers, picked as a welcome present for me.