Auntie Marge taught me that 2:30 p.m. is the time of day the angels pass over. The day rustles a little, like a skirt resettling itself in breezes. It’s pause-able.
Today 2:30 p.m. met me on a running path bench that’s what my Dad called “spittin’ distance” from Lake Michigan. Since the day was August amiable, I responded by smiling at every body that passed me by.
I realize this might have been off-putting. Some evaded my bench as if it, or I, was a mud muddle. In particular, one gent appeared offended. He had a nice cane, a nostalgic straw hat, a straight back and the gait of a promenader. He was impressive to me and I supposed to himself. He most decidedly promenaded past me faster that the situation warranted.
Then, well past spittin distance, he wheeled around like a drill bit and shouted to me and to me alone, “Did you SEE that!? A raccoon! I didn’t know they lived here! It must live under that tree! See it!? See there!? It’s a raccoon! It’s a raccoon!”
Well, in fact I did not. I had not. However, his animation so pleased me and I supposed himself, I nodded and waved and smiled-smiled-smiled. I believe the angels were delicately amused.