Susan Lafferty“Hmm,” my college art teacher says. Then again, “Hmmmm.”
She’s looking over my shoulder. At the simple drawing. Graphite lines. Bare bones to plan and guide the assigned painting.
“Bigger. Go big!” She says. With increasing volume. Her arms flying out for emphasis. “Stretch it out. Go biiiig.”
The startling command contrasts with my small, neat pencil sketch. So confined and contained.
Here’s a little light reading for Thanksgiving week. True story. From the archives. And the attic.
Todd arrived home late one night. After a long trip. When he opened the front door, the first thing he saw was me. Standing at the top of the stairs, on the second floor. Gripping a cricket bat with both hands.
What?
I silently pointed to the air vent in the ceiling. One little paw was reaching down, clawing at the air. I whacked the ceiling and it retreated.
I had no idea what “it” was. But I wasn’t about to let it just waltz down into our home.
Mystery. Mysterion.
One summer night I stand on the porch.
Watching a mystery.
Heat lightning.
Light pulsating in silent, brilliant rhythm.
Illuminating massive white clouds in night sky.
I can’t tear my eyes away.
