Off With Your Head

Thoughts chatter in my mind like the teeth of an uncoated child—buzzing like a live utility wire—and I’m without a tin hat.

If I had a sword, I’d slice them clean, like that watermelon-cutting app: one thwap, and they’d melt into the floor.

And then I’d be free—free to listen to the quiet, to hear your heavy sigh, to catch the gears spinning ‘round your head.

Uh oh—here comes another. Karate chop. And the crowd goes wild.

I remind myself: take advantage of the silence, protect the peace I’ve carved out. But I’d left my gate unlocked, slightly ajar—not a real gate, the psychic, relational one. I’d just planted those flowers, roots barely clinging to soil. Then she came, engine revved, axes to grind, sparks flying down my avenue.

It all unfolded in fast-forward: yellow flags flaring orange, then red. And I worried—would she cry, “Off with your head”?

Protect and defend—it’s not my way. So when she tromped my beds, slammed the gate clear off its hinges, I felt myself crumple. Vulnerable as my plants. Where’s the fairness? Where’s the justice, when someone storms in, dumps their load, and runs?

Still, I’ll get out the screwdriver. Drill a new hole. Mulch the soil, tamp it back down. I’ll rebuild. And next time, my gate will be latched, a fresh coat of Do Not Enter painted across the old Welcome mat.

Love, Jaclynn