sitting, waiting.

Waiting for my next adventure to roll towards me through the darkness. With an old blanket throw wrapped around my knees to ward off mosquitoes, I blend into the dusk and, in turn, the night melts into me. I'm not a young girl in ratty pajamas; I am the motorcycle speeding around the corner, racing rubber tires over asphalt. I am the neighbour's cat, only the white tip of my tail visible against the layers of black. I am the twangs of a country song, floating over the yard from a car radio nearby. I am the world, and merely a speck in it. 

Waiting for what, I'm not quite sure. The hard, white plastic of the chair pokes at my bones.  I am but one of a gathered circle, and we take turns reminiscing. (Do you remember when? Oh, the days I used to...) This is the game no one tires of. The rickety table, the flowers, the trees, and even our faces are fuzzy, yet the stories of our pasts stand clear before us. I pull the throw tighter around my shoulders, head up to the sky. My adventure is coming, and waiting isn't so terrible.