It's warm today, almost muggy. I can see into the backyards of the homes around us and across the way leaves left over from the melted snow swirl then run off in a line, like school kids, in a row. They scurry past my window and I think they are small animals. They walk with legs and swinging arms. Marching upright, soldiers. But they are just leaves.
Ivy giggled in her sleep this morning, her head on my pillow. I wondered how many fairies were born right then. I think dozens. Upon dozens.
It smells different here, and I can't put my finger on it. Later in the day I decide it smells like the past, like home or Easter, a time that I've never spent in Ohio before. This is the first time I've been here for this kind of scent in the air, this season, this month, this weather. This should be home now, but it's confusing because I know it's only temporary so I kind of shrug it off even though it keeps nudging me to notice.
I think if I had the energy and wherewithal to compose a really long post I'd like to write about how I'm a chameleon and I've always been. Some people might call it easy going or a adaptable but they don't see my handwriting, how I can make it look like hers with just a glance. They don't know what book I just read to make me write like this or maybe I'm underestimating my observer and they really can tell by this phrase or that. Who I've been watching to make my voice sound like that even though I don't even mean to. It just happens. Maybe they are just nice and don't bring it up.