In the spirit of Sei Shonagon
…..One hurries down the street towards one’s office, coat clutched in one hand, the other holding a bag close. As one is stepping across the tricky intersection, eyeing the car that drifts forward a little pushily, there appears, from another country, a stocky construction worker and his pal. He says clearly and for no reason, “Good morning my queen”. There is just enough time – only an instant – to see in his face the warmth and candor, not a hint of swagger or joking. One more second is enough time to smile back and gain the curb. One can’t help but be heartened and lighten one’s gait. The rest of the day is likely to have some charm in it.
…..Another day, the same street, something else that is charming. One had feared that the autumn would be all dried up and brown, the great oak trees not having lived up to expectations, when there, underfoot, on the brick sidewalk, a mixture of soft red and pink leaves from the young maple. The lovely, pliable leaves are mixed with other ones from a neighbouring pear, these ones thin and pointed, curled at the edges, green and yellow. One comes to look forward to the spot and takes pleasure in watching one’s shoes stepping on the collage. The barely damp scent of the leaves. Is it not charming to walk in the leaves?
…..Satisfying too, the sound of the morning crows replacing the crickets of the night before; their cheeky calls rousing as the night’s insects were soothing. Of course it is vanity to suppose admonishment or comfort in these sounds. Satisfying, nevertheless.
…..Occasionally to happen upon music in a tiny space, performed in such close proximity as to be one’s private enjoyment. Charming, the half-smile of the old man playing the banjo. Curious, the jerky motion of the saxophonist’s leg, keeping time. The band within arm’s reach if one turns away from the plate full of mussels.
…..A singed delight, really, the feeling of having a suitor at one’s back, caressing the skin there delicately and not without portent. Delight made piquant with limit, as an oceanfish more delicious a bit blackened.
…..Stopping in one’s hurry for a moment on a street corner, one bites into a sandwich made with some untried ingredient. Just then a circle of pigeons wheels overhead, flushed from their roost. The glint from the grey and white splattered wings is dazzling. In that moment, one’s mouth having been opened slightly from looking up, a breeze puts a lock of one’s own hair, a bit smoky with city air, in with the mouthful of sandwich. The slight possibility of something dropping from the pigeons is like a relish in the sandwich, tasted for the first time. Indeed, the taste of the sandwich is not comparable to anything previously eaten. Is it not because of this relish, this delight of unease?
…..Satisfying, the sight of the pigeons turning together, wings now outstretched, now fluttering. Head lifted, looking now at a very blue sky, one swallows the bit of olive that might as well have been the same colour as the tired skin under one’s eyes. Wondrous and charming, then, everything.
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Jennifer McLean’s background is too varied to describe here, suffice to say that it does not involve an MFA. After several big city and small town adventures, she has settled for good in Asheville, North Carolina. Her stories have appeared in Writ, the Trinity Review, and Off the Coast.
