I. As hippies, we repaired our jeans with patches, braid, embroidery floss. A statement: flower power. Decades later came heavy metal, grunge. Tattered and torn, a statement: fuck you. Now, designer distressed, professionally ripped in all the right places, a statement: I’m with it, at any cost.

II. Broken, faded, distressed, frayed. I’m not talking about my heart, dreams, mood, nerves; I’m talking about my jeans. I buy them new, true blue, then break them as they fade over time, rip at the knees, fray at the hems — like my wrinkles, earned by wear and tear, experience. Pride of ownership.

///

100 words

RetroFlash

Possibly a loner by nature,

I never mixed with the neighbors much,

just a cool wave and a smile if I spotted one

as I backed out the driveway,

a word or two when we’d pass while walking our dogs.

I’m not the kind to borrow a cup of sugar.

 

Since we began sheltering in place,

I’ve taken to bingeing season after season of

The Great British Baking Show.

 

Inspired by my interest,

my husband gave me cookie sheets for my birthday.

Now, safely masked,

eyes warm, arms outstretched,

I offer sweets to the neighbors.

Something about me has changed.

 

/ / /

100 words

RetroFlash

Note: I’ve recently become a fan of the 100-word story, also known as flash, or drabble. Be it prose or poem, you can say a lot with 100 words…but each word really matters so it’s not as simple as it may seem. That’s the fun of it…tweaking here and there until it’s a minimalist work of art, a black-and-white photograph made of words. (And if I’ve piqued your interest, you might want to check out 100wordstory.org.)

 

I don’t believe either of us campaigned on any issues, stands, or ideas. I do remember some of my slogans.
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