Today, Grandpa Hoggard and I walked down the stairs and into the garage, on our way to his parked car and the shadowy cave in which it sits, on our way to the roads that would lead us to Sharon's, his favorite cafe. "No other place like it around here," Grandpa told me twice, or thrice.
The day was nice and hot, though later on it felt like the rain clouds hung heavy with expectancy. Grandpa drove about five or ten miles below the speed limit, the only one to take the "crazy" intersection at thirty-third (?) with calmness and consistency. Lately, life has felt a little bit like "Driving Ms. Daisy," which I've never watched. But it seems appropriate as Grandpa opens each door for me, waits for me to walk ahead, allows me to sit in the passenger seat in my wheel-happy body as he ambles down the street to our destination in his gray jumpsuit and his white car. Though I am not sure who is Ms. Daisy, and who is supposed to be the other guy. (which, now that I think of it, is a pretty interesting comparison)
As I sat beside him in the car this morning, at around 10:30, he remarked on the snow still on the mountains, on Timp, how it must be almost spring (yes, he does know what month it is. He is a teaser and a joker.) and I sat with my chin almost resting on the side door of the car, watching the progress of an interesting insect. One second there was nothing, and the next a moderately-sized green bug, almost like a dragonfly, had landed on the outer-side of the window.
At first, I was a little concerned that he had entered the car (I am assuming it was a he), but after the initial concern faded, I observed the pale sheen of green of his body, the two eyes that stuck out from his head, huge, round, and watchful. He looked, for some reason, like a little person squatting there, something about the placement of his legs. Almost entirely distracted by this familiar position, I barely noticed his almost ridiculously long abdomen, different shades of green, and his gossamer wings. He was beautiful.
I am not a bug person. This was weird. I found myself checking for rips in his wings, an injury that would keep him on the car window. I wondered, is he resting from a long day of facing danger, is it the shade the car allows him, does he enjoy the feeling of flying without having to make his wings move? Suddenly, it seemed like he was watching me. Self-conscious, I turned my head from the window and tried not to look at the small creature who was barely holding onto the surface as we drove.
"I'm not going to let you in, I'm not going to let you in," I thought defensively, turning my head away so he'd leave. I felt him observing, perceiving, through the reflection of the side-view mirror and it was with relief that I finally opened the door, hopped out, and walked with Grandpa to the door of Sharon's for a brunch-ish meal. When we got back, about an hour later, he was still perched on the little platform created by the mirror. When we pulled back into the garage, he had gone.
He was a beautiful bug.
Today, Grandpa Hoggard and I walked down the stairs and into the garage, on our way to his parked car and the shadowy cave in which it sits, on our way to the roads that would lead us to Sharon's, his favorite cafe. "No other place like it around here," Grandpa told me twice, or thrice.
The day was nice and hot, though later on it felt like the rain clouds hung heavy with expectancy. Grandpa drove about five or ten miles below the speed limit, the only one to take the "crazy" intersection at thirty-third (?) with calmness and consistency. Lately, life has felt a little bit like "Driving Ms. Daisy," which I've never watched. But it seems appropriate as Grandpa opens each door for me, waits for me to walk ahead, allows me to sit in the passenger seat in my wheel-happy body as he ambles down the street to our destination in his gray jumpsuit and his white car. Though I am not sure who is Ms. Daisy, and who is supposed to be the other guy. (which, now that I think of it, is a pretty interesting comparison)
As I sat beside him in the car this morning, at around 10:30, he remarked on the snow still on the mountains, on Timp, how it must be almost spring (yes, he does know what month it is. He is a teaser and a joker.) and I sat with my chin almost resting on the side door of the car, watching the progress of an interesting insect. One second there was nothing, and the next a moderately-sized green bug, almost like a dragonfly, had landed on the outer-side of the window.
At first, I was a little concerned that he had entered the car (I am assuming it was a he), but after the initial concern faded, I observed the pale sheen of green of his body, the two eyes that stuck out from his head, huge, round, and watchful. He looked, for some reason, like a little person squatting there, something about the placement of his legs. Almost entirely distracted by this familiar position, I barely noticed his almost ridiculously long abdomen, different shades of green, and his gossamer wings. He was beautiful.
I am not a bug person. This was weird. I found myself checking for rips in his wings, an injury that would keep him on the car window. I wondered, is he resting from a long day of facing danger, is it the shade the car allows him, does he enjoy the feeling of flying without having to make his wings move? Suddenly, it seemed like he was watching me. Self-conscious, I turned my head from the window and tried not to look at the small creature who was barely holding onto the surface as we drove.
"I'm not going to let you in, I'm not going to let you in," I thought defensively, turning my head away so he'd leave. I felt him observing, perceiving, through the reflection of the side-view mirror and it was with relief that I finally opened the door, hopped out, and walked with Grandpa to the door of Sharon's for a brunch-ish meal. When we got back, about an hour later, he was still perched on the little platform created by the mirror. When we pulled back into the garage, he had gone.
He was a beautiful bug.
