The potted petunia bloomed itself silly, then we cut it back, and now it’s covered with fresh green growth and a wealth of new flowers. Purple, púrpura, velvet, terciopelo. One thing I notice about older hikers who walk with a stick, is how the stick is as much a companion as it is a physical aid. For me, metal walking poles, as useful as they apparently are, have no appeal. I also notice that while walking uphill at a higher altitude, I can go a good fair distance without stopping or needing to catch my breath. I just trudge along, until, when I arrive at the top, I am approximately three feet tall. Then I unwind myself and start blooming again, like the potted petunia. I’ve never used a stick or a pole. I’d like to have a stick, though — a nice one, with a little carved owl at the top, or some other mystical figure. I’d like to be a mystical figure. I’d like to be a walking stick. Well — who’s to prevent it? And who’s to say that I’m not both even now? As if meaning were meaningless, and not a vessel to be filled.
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