A truckful of the no-longer-blooming dead is wailing brightly in the driveway that used to be ours. I told Ms. Fayette (yes, the sweet old dearie from down the street) I told her (because she asked), I told her, “He and I shared a driveway for years and years and years. Why would the contents of his skull (of any skull that knows me even a little) reason that a massacre of blooms would warm my heart?”
And Ms. Fayette said to me, she said to me (in that sugary-choking voice of hers, that’s all goodness and no thought), she said to me (as I inner-raged while really wanting to outer-scream), she said to me, “Oh, honey! Bless your heart! Darling girl, don’t you know? He thinks he is being kind. It’s his thought that counts.”
And I, Not-So-Dear One, I hope Ms. Fayette is wrong about your thought (or lack thereof), about what counts, about kindness. Because, you know, what she seems to think about kindness (and me) isn’t true. Your thought is not what counts when being kind. To be kind, one must think critically and knowingly (act accordingly) and remember kindness is in the eye of the beholder. And I, I behold you ruthless.
I am hoping Ms. Fayette is wrong, wrong, wrong about what counts and kindness and you. For if she’s right, I wasted half a lifetime with a stranger who fails to see the gormlessness of killing (flower or flesh) to win a heart that feels for all things.
Truly Yours (never again),
the wee notes…
- crafted for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (just one word: gormless), for The Sunday Muse (46), and for Poets United (poetry pantry 442 and kindness).
- if you missed “Oh, the Weird Horror! of a Dream with a Humorous Corpse in It (and updates)”, my earlier post, give it go (for none should mad-dream alone).
- smile from the top of your head to the tip of your toes (then picture it).
borrowed from Floret via The Sunday Muse