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  • Writer's pictureMarie Smysor Watson


Boy howdy, has it been a madhouse in Casa Watson these last few months! Setting up shop in new digs ain't for the faint of heart, I assure you. We are settling in though, back in this place from whence we came. It's a dozen years since we lived here, and man, things change, people. We intentionally weren't trying to recreate our past, so the Mister and I deliberately chose a different section of town to live in, so we weren't running into our own ghosts all of the time. But it's not that big of a town, so it's impossible to refrain from "remember when?" That's okay, nostalgia never killed anyone. And besides, I'm learning anew what it takes to be pushed outside of my comfort zone. I signed up for a class at the local community college, more to refresh my attitude than anything else. What a trip it is to sit in a classroom full of people who could be your kids, but who aren't. You don't have to feed or clothe them, or monitor their behavior. You just get to sit back and marvel at their intelligence and senses of humor and wonder if you were ever that cool when you were their age (you weren't - I was there.) For said class, I had to write three poems, any subject. Way outside of my wheelhouse, dear friends, but man did I enjoy the process. I relied heavily on the aforementioned nostalgia to fill in the gaps. Everything has its uses, I suppose, so enjoy the first of the three, entitled "Blue".... and thanks for stopping by!

Ron’s TV Repair

the crooked sign reads

I pass it every day on my way to nowhere


This metal tube carrying gristle and bone time-machines me back to

When us three sat in the blue light of

The Smurfs

And Fat Albert

And Looney Tunes

In our cartoon underwear for old times’ sake.

Mine always pink to distinguish it in the wash.

We fought

over the box of cinnamon cereal, fought

over whose turn it was to change channels, fought

over established pecking order

(The first shall be last and the last shall be first, fool! sayeth Skeletor to He-Man)

Now we are polite, we never fight

We say:

how are you?

what’s new with you?

I love you?

During our bloodless calls.

Good God, boys! I had to buy a room spray to conjure the spell of our earliest days.

It smells

like the kind of cereal Mom would never buy because it was

too expensive

So then, a non-memory for us three.

Praise be.

No one fixes TVs anymore

Which is why Ron’s sign is hanging askew, unused


And there is a FOR SALE sign

In his plucked parking lot

Ron, who is likely dead, hovering neatly in the near-blue beyond like

Casper the Friendly Ghost.

I will never pass this way again

I tell myself every day driving down this poorly drawn street to somewhere.

Thanks for reading, and I hope to be back to posting on a more regular schedule! Unless I get distracted by Saturday Morning Cartoons, that is...

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