Expectation was waiting up for me when I got home last night.
“We need to talk,” it said, “Have you decided on a name? There must be a name
or how will we know what to call you, how to treat you, what you should do?
“Are you a misplaced shoe, a tea towel, a garden trowel? Are you a scrap of wrapping
paper, a bit of gristle, a tiny floating thistle?
“The name is important,” it said, “Or how else will we know whether to bring out
the hanky or the bootstrap, the carrot or the stick, the marigold or the iris? There
must be a name,” it said, and then folded into a ladybug and flew away home.
I bent to pick dandelions glowing in the moonlight as the scent of smoke
scratched against darkness.