We can’t help ourselves.
Nestled in our hamlet with its overflowing silos of false abundance and our eyes dulled into vacant complacency, we are prime for reaping.
When he sweeps through our streets, all flounce and flourish, his cape flapping in kaleidoscopic allure, we stir.
When his face beckons, eyes brimming with intimated promises, we follow.
When his lips curve and press into the body of the flute, the lilting melody breathes life into us, and we dance. Bewitched, we whirl past our zaftig fathers drunk in the taverns and boasting of schemes and swindles, waltz by our overburdened mothers slicing midsommar watermelon, sticky and pink, as laundry stiffens on the line.
We trail him through town like bruxing rats, as sisters and brothers, our cherubic curls bouncing as we blithely twirl into the murky depths of our unknown.
Connie says, If I were lucky to be musically gifted (alas, I am not), I’d play the timpani, an elegant and independent drum made of copper that boasts the loveliest ability to change its pitch. Plus, you get to bang on it with a mallet.
In our dream band, on timpani:
Connie Millard is a full-time working mom of three, who once made it to the final callbacks for the reality television show, Worst Cooks in America. She is completing her MFA at Lindenwood University. Her work has appeared in Tales from the Moonlit Path, Goats Milk Magazine, and Last Girls Club, among others. You can find her at conniemillardwriter.com