Emotional is not a word I'm afraid of. Matter of fact the emotional realm is my playground, in which I wallow from morbid melancholy to celestial joy. When time and energy are stolen from me due to personal and career commitments, my capacity for emotional yoyoing settles at zero. When I have not refueled my stocks of beauty, pleasure or solitude the sentimental scale wavers at despondent and nothing more. That was me yesterday, enjoying the breezes from my garden, but not really. They were cool and unusual for August with a hint of moisture befitting the month. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the flicker of blue and metal. A tiny blue dragonfly flitted around my head. He was so stunning and fearless I watched his flight for long minutes (remember the need to restock my reservoirs?).
The next morning I emptied out the garbage can after a heavy nights storm. Floating in a puddle of water in the garbage lid was the dragonfly! I cupped him in my hand and could feel the hum of his weak wings. Knowing the forecast called for a heavy downpour I knew I couldn't leave him to die the most Hemmingwayesque of deaths: To die, alone, in the rain. So I placed him on a shelf, under the patio table that protects my shears and gardening gloves from raindrops.
I forgot about the little guy till the next day when I looked for his body. It was gone. Perhaps he resuscitated and flew off. Perhaps a neighborhood cat walked by and took him for a snack. Or, perhaps he flew off to the place that dragonflies go. Ah see? The optimism's back.
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