I’m feeling too exposed, like on Halloween when the broach on my witches’ costume came unpinned when I was standing in the front of my entire fifth-grade class. Even though I recovered quickly, turning toward the chalkboard, pulling my shirt together, and re-pinning the broach, I can still feel the shake of my hands and the muscular ache of mortification in my chest.
I worry, what if someone sees me in my most vulnerable state?
I’m struggling to find the words to write, kind of like I’m a salmon trudging upstream to spawn, while wrestling against a relentless current.
Maybe I should switch topics.
Like my chicken, the one I talked about earlier this summer. Well, it’s bigger. And by it, I’m relatively sure I mean he.
He roosts in the tree below my bedroom window, and it’s like his adolescent voice is cracking each morning and night because he is the worst cock-a-doodle-dooer in the history of the cock-a-doodle-doings.
It’s funny how he struts his less than full-grown body around, with a skinny neck, and legs all around like he owns the place.
Yesterday, while I threw slices of cooked zucchini on the ground for the chick to eat, Archie got in the mix. Without warning, they started fighting. Have you ever seen a chicken and a dog fight? It’s kind of hilarious. The chicken’s neck plumes stick out like an olden-times ruffly neck thing, while at the same time, his wings boost him up to the dog’s eye level. Then he proceeds to unsuccessfully kick and peck at Archie’s snout and eyes.
Since Archie is not that great of an older brother, he tries to make chicken tenders of him, leading to me intervening.
Well, that’s about it! Tomorrow’s a half day at work, then Dave and I are dropping Evelyn at a friend’s house so we can meet other friends at Marymoor Park to see The Decemberists concert. I can’t wait!
Talk to you soon. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 