Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of September 20, 2020
Fall is always in such a rush to get here. Spring refuses to leave. Summer is a fair-weather friend, and winter is a drunken old bastard with an axe to grind.
The Many Shoes of Marty Smith
I remember her,
when we were very little,
walking so fast,
my sister and I
struggling
to keep up,
in those high heels,
clicking on the sidewalk,
not waiting for traffic lights,
leaving us far behind,
trying to catch up.
She could dance
in high heels,
even The Charleston.
The men rushed toward the open door. “Not so fast, fuck-os,” she said. Annie was a small woman, no more than five-foot-three with most of her weight in her disproportionate breasts, of which she often complained gave her backaches.