leaving a trail
Crumbs fell from Thalia’s toast as she exited the kitchen through the sliding glass door. The Muse of Wit took a seat on a patio chair. She swiveled to the left and right while listening to Typist read from Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White.
“Charlotte… through her spiderlings… left a legacy. Evidence that she lived and loved,” Calliope sighed.
“We only know that the spiderlings hatched and scattered to the four winds because we’ve heard the story so many times.” Thalia brushed a sunflower seed from her chest onto a deck board. “Good thing Charlotte didn’t attach her egg sac to a drywalled corner of Typist’s basement. The baby eightlegs would have hatched and starved inside of our vacuum’s holding canister.”
“Hmmm…” Urania rested her chin on her hand and looked into the distance. “Great works are like that. All we can do is show up and give our best. The outcome is oft not within our control.”
Words from Typist:
August, a time of shortening days with fairs celebrating livestock and harvest always puts me in mind of Wilbur, Charlotte, Templeton the rat, and Fern Arable who left Wilbur behind while she rode the Ferris wheel with Henry Fussy.
Are there any stories from childhood that live inside of you?
What, if any, direction do they offer?
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