THE PURSE…. A HAIBUN


16 june 2011 > 8 > lust/star

What on the outside side needs balance on the inside?
How will you shine your light upon this world?
Can you be the peace?

I share with you one of my writing that has evolved over the last few days. Still writing small moments. I ended this with a haiku related to the story. I believe this makes this story what is called a Haibun.

THE PURSE

I drink, I gamble, I follow most signs that say; Garage
Sales, Moving Sale, Barn Sale, Sale Here, Sale Today,
Neighbor-hood Sale, Rummage Sale, these are fevers I
give into. Occasionally, like this one, I think, ‘no I can
pass this one by, there are more down the road. Haven’t I
already hit a dozen of them in the last 150 miles? Don’t I
have enough shit’ At this rate of junk hunting, I’ll never get to Dease Lake, or where ever it is I might be on my way to. I’m always on my way somewhere and I’m always taking the back roads following the signs.

I was heading due north, making the three hour trek to
Dease Lake, for relaxation, good food, family fun and bit of
one of my addiction cures… garage sales. The weather was
spectacular and promised to continue with blue sky, and
80 degrees. Nights would be filled with the illumination of
stars and a silver moon. The gentle ripple of the lake
against the shore would kiss my eyelids goodnight.

For a junker/pirate the freeway is a dead zone, a void-less,
mindless stretch of pavement that offers no treasure; a
means to end that can happen in a hurry. It’s heartless
and I avoid freeways most of the time. I take it as far I
need to; caught in the jam of cars once to often, hopeful
to get off of it as quickly as possible.

I made the u-turn on the two lane country road, taking a
bit off the shoulder, just missing the ditch. I’m good at
just missing the ditch. I saw the garage sale sign half a
mile back, black paint scrawled on a piece of 3’ x 2’ wood,
staked into the side of the road. I’m sure there is a replica of it about a mile north with the same invitation on it for those garage salers coming towards me. It called out to me like a siren from a sea of many such signs that
dotted the rural roads of the Midwest in the summer.

Despair had not yet marked this old farmhouse. Even with garden debris and old tools strewn about the yard there was still a graciousness and care that brightens it. Spring flowers stood tall and vivid. A huge lilac bush wafted the scent of its dark purple blossoms as I let myself brush by it with a deep inhale. I turned the corner of the old house to greet the over filled tables and the two women that gave me a sweeping gesture and began to say together,

‘Hi Hun. We probably got what ever yer lookin’ for. Make us an offer.”

They look at each other, giggle and give me a smile. I say,

“K”

I reached for the old tattered purse. It was crafted in fine wool needlepoint of red tulips, green leaves on a black background. The edges were rough and worn with time. The handle was broken. It smelt of an old damp basement that had rusted the zipper just enough to make it difficult to pull. It still had a beauty about it that moved me to want it. It must have once been special to a woman nearly a 75 years ago, a gift, a birthday, a wedding trousseau; it was too fine to have not held special meaning. I felt the history of it slide up my fingers with it’s stories of love and loss. It was going to be mine. I walked around the sale looking at all the clothes and household offerings, feeling this purse story slide into my heart, I placed it down on an old wood crate and left it. I left it with it with all its stories. I left it with its hope and losses. I left it so I wouldn’t feel the ache of it. I wanted it. I left it.

 

Ache hungry to tell

stings the heart a sad old song

left to be wanted

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