Mariah sat out side her own house, looking at her chipping nails and removing the dirt that migrated in there, as she had been working with her plants again. Her fingers were responding to some attention from the Dwarves of the Hands and they rubbed oils and poked with blunt implement to push around what was too tight and too crooked or was going that way in both her thumbs. She appreciated the attention from them and enjoyed the chat. She liked to hear stories from them and asked them for dreams. The last time she did not hear a dream but her worker noted that she had this thing of wanting the dishes done even as she did not find time to do them before she came to work on hands. All the while she was away from her place she though of those dishes lying around and so wanted that to not be the case.
When she came home the dishes were done and she thanked her husband three times for doing this chore. He was a bit puzzled with her that she was so thankful and relieved. Mariah thought it was something to do with her mother. The worker slanted her eyes, and looked into the distance. Mariah wanted to continue but she changed the subject saying that the egg that she cooks is never as good as the one she gets from someone else. And that was that. Mariah thought it was still due to her mother but she kept silent as her hand was being pulled this way and that. Surely she would soon be cured.
Mariah had the feeling she had something to do with what was happening to her own body, as it vacillated this way and that, sometimes feeling fully cured, sometimes on her last gasp. The rain and the wind and the snow and the ice seemed to bring their own special messengers of rawness and it had been raining since last May, at least eight months now.
The bog holes were full and overflowing and the rivers went along fast and furious, some overflowing their banks. The lower reaches of her house sported a little stream at times. She refused to get excited about it and waited for it to leave of its own accord. The March rains were sure to spring up, as there were springs underneath the hill she lived on. She used to push that pure clean water around in a furious manner ushering it out the far corner until she was in a sweat, in her bare feet. One time, she had just finished bathing when the flood came in and she danced all around looking all white and bouncy, with her brush until she was out of breath. There was little use pushing that water all around the place and she threw the brush in the rising water. As she turned, she slipped in the thin layer of find mud under her bare feet. She landed in the corner and there she spied out one of Uishneach’s green garments, clogging the exit hole for the water. She was glad he was out for a few days as she brought it out to hang to dry on the bushes. She noticed something heavy in the pocket and found two pieces of gold. She would keep it for one of her own projects, or for a rainy day and there were plenty of them.
Uishneach had started to build an ark in the lane and there was great interest in this large thing in the middle of the midlands with no water in sight. “But it will be here for when it floods” is what Uishneach said. He had three workers putting it together and there were great conversation about how to cover in the sides. What color of paint? how thick the boards? Uishneach left and his workers came for just a few hours here and here. Mariah paid them little heed when they wanted money, keeping her gold pieces for herself. She had mixed feeling about this ark. Maybe she would have some good fire wood for next winter. The end.
From her porch, Rose heard a group of ten bikers going up the street, skinny and black clad, on dark shiny bikes, close together and moving in unison. One had pink stripes on the lower back and others had other small signs scattered on their tight clad muscles to help them to be seem. It is a steep hill and as Rose looked around to see them there was one talking about something on the front page of the newspaper and “wouldn’t it be funny if”… that is all Rose heard. Others things she heard from passing bikers in the past were “My wife works at JMU” and other little phrases, full of loud words that she has forgotten.
She always listens keenly to the Man Bikers hoping she will get some great words of wisdom to flow in over the hedge to her or through the opening at the steps where she gets glimpses of them. She likes to hear this man talk as she is always talking to women.
Rose had a dream last night set in the churchyard back home in Rosemount, in County Westmeath, Ireland where there was a great free feast. The feast was not in the church but in the opposite direction. Rose went up to the nuns and brothers who were in charge of the feast. A line had formed and Rose wanted to know how long she would have to wait. Some people left and then she was first in line. The nun was dressed in white, with veil and wimple on. Rose could see her face plainly as she addressed her with her question.
Love you. I pray for you, you pray for me. We will both be ahead. I write my dreams, you write out yours. We can both plan to get some instruction from our dreams and partake in the great free feast. We will be ahead again. Love from Rose.
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