My Wee Little Gnome

A long time ago, a little garden gnome with a red hat stole a sock from my overnight bag.  I was at my friend’s house, and we couldn’t find the sock.  But we both could swear there was a little gnome in the house stealing socks.

At college, the little gnome would steal pages of my homework and leave it in odd places I’m quite sure I’d never leave them.  He still had a liking for my socks, too.

When I had kids, the little gnome would take the kids’ socks.  He took many more of their tiny baby socks than he ever took of mine.  It was astounding how many of their socks would disappear.

One day I found his stash under my couch.  I could never figure out why he would put them there, but what do I know?  He never stuck around long enough for me to ask.

Then one day, my kids had both gone to school and I was idly folding laundry.  My cat was sitting beside me, purring as usual, hoping to get my attention.  From under the cabinet that holds my TV strolled a little tiny man.  He wore green pants and a blue shirt, little brown shoes and a pointy red hat.  He had a long white beard and long white hair.  I blinked at him, certain I had fallen asleep and was dreaming.  Maybe it was actually a mouse I was seeing, I thought to myself.  My jaw dropped to the floor when he strolled to my pile of folded socks and flicked through them.  He frowned at all of them and then glared at me.  Then,  the little man spoke in a tinny, high pitched voice. 

He said, “Excuse me, I really had a fondness for those tiny hats that you had for awhile.  These larger ones are more like ski masks, which are all well and good when my kids are teenagers and want to be outside all winter.  But, they’ve all moved out now and it’s just me and the missus.  Can’t you get me some more of the little ones?”

 Then he wandered back to the TV cabinet and I kept staring at it in disbelief. 

Collectible Friends

She lived her life as if it was a flea market. She bought and sold her time as if it was a cheap, shiny piece of costume jewelry. She bartered with her body, as if it was a nickel or a quarter to be exchanged. She haggled with every one she met, wheeling and dealing with every stranger she spoke with. She sifted through the dross of humanity, searching for those rare and valuable collectibles that always seemed to be found at the bottom of a bin or buried beneath the junk. She searched her entire life for the one thing that could make her life seem more than a babble of noise and a crush of people and a gritty exchange of currency. As if searching through the bins at a flea market, hoping to find a treasure amidst all the junk, she searched for friends.

Sand Castles in my Mind

The Sandman is calling me.
He is building sand castles in my mind,
Inviting me inside to wander
the corridors of dream.

I fight the temptation to slumber,
refusing the Sandman’s call.
Mindless tasks of cleaning clothes
and doing dishes,
of vacuuming
and tidying
occupy my hands,
keep my body moving,
but still the Sandman is calling.

I sit to write,
but all I see are the shell filled hallways
of the great fortress that Sandman built.
My eyes feel the grit of the sand,
My body holds the weight of it.

My pen falls forgotten,
My paper lies neglected.
My head is pillowed on my arms,
and I surrender to the call of the Sandman.
I give myself up to the castle built of sand,
to wander its halls in Sleep.