As some of my readers (the few, the proud, the silent) tell me, it’s been too long since I’ve written a story here. And for that I apologize. But, I really haven’t had a good story to write here for a while.
What would you prefer, a bad story often or the cream of the crop, every blue moon?
Don’t answer. There is no proper answer. From the start, it was a question that would only serve to prop up my ego for a couple more days. And there’s no cream of the crop on blue moons, as any good farmer knows.
So, instead of a story, let’s pretend we’re sitting next to each other, crops growing underneath the moon, which is above our feet on a porch.
“I met Martha on my way down to Lake Charles, Louisiana. She was sitting in a diner in Porter, right north of Houston.”
“Why were you going to Lake Charles? Following a Lucinda Williams song?”
“Does it have anything to do with Martha?”
“I don’t know.”
“I walked into the diner- her hair was black, but it didn’t look that way. It looked brown, and there wasn’t even that much light on her. But her eyes had all the empathy anyone could ever want. There were lines next to her eyes, of course, as all empathetic eyes have, but I knew, with just one look, that she was love itself.”
“So why are you so down?”
“I left the diner.”