Writing in the Dark of the Year

 I have signed up for a course, encouraged by my friend Susanne, who persuaded our friend Sharalynn and me to join her.

"Writing in the Dark of the Year" started on Tuesday night when indeed Winter, flying in the teeth of El Nino, showed us who's boss in Alberta.

I locked myself into my room, away from dogs, away from cats, away from the pandemonium and drudgery of life at -40° on a cow-calf operation.

Our leader, Kelsey, got the nine of us to introduce ourselves; then she asked us to write a list of things we cannot do.

THEN she asked us to pick one off the list and address it. It could be a how-to; it could be humourous; it could be whatever we wanted. 

We had ten minutes.

I reviewed my list and found it somewhat melancholic and a little bit waspish. So I went with the first one: "I can't reach high shelves or the floor of the passenger side of the truck."

And this is what I wrote:

Stretch.

S-T-R-E-T-C-H!

Waggle the tips

of your fingers as if

they are periscopes to the

submarine mass of your body

One more inch. That's all

you need, ONE

MORE KNUCKLE appended

to your index finger.

Still no?

Step back, then several steps back, and look up:

It's there, the object of your desire,

there in tantalizingly plain view

on the third shelf of the cupboard.

Align yourself again, and this time

Stand on tippy toes, your left hand

on the second shelf for balance

as your right hand flaps vaguely 

in the area you remember

the object to be.

It's an existence of inches:

Shortest in my family.

Short arms short legs short trunk

short temper short memory -

62 1/2" cohabiting with 75" rancher

who is never on call

except for supper.

It's me and the dogs and the cats, all

people shorter than I.

Still no?

I sure could do with a drink

but I just can't reach

that glass ...

(📷  by the GR)

Two hours more till this evening's class!