Semi-Daily Scribbles

Previously…

And was that pickup ever loaded down. Tail pipe scraped the driveway as Darla eased into the car-lined side street. It was early. Pinkish clouds punctured the slate-grey sky. Darla's wet tangle of curls was gathered at the back of her head with the thick blue elastic that held together last night's broccoli. Her mind buzzed with all the to-do's to get Boothby operational. She'd laid everything out the night before and drew up a diagram for efficient set-up of her 12’ X 20’ space. What began as therapy became Darla's bread and butter. Funny how silly sketches in crayon could turn someone's life around. Darla maintained a tight grip on the wheel and drove ten miles below the speed limit. She kept to the surface roads which made for a snaky, roundabout trip to the Prairie View but Darla didn't mind. She left with plenty of time to spare. Safety first. Many hours of work were covered in bungeed blue tarp and that was reason enough to take it easy out on the road. Darla checked the truck's bed in the rear-view mirror while stopped to wait for the light to turn green at the intersection of 75th and Howell. The blue mountain hadn't shifted an inch. The light was still red. Darla looked in the mirror at her slightly shiny face and frowned at her souvenir. The brownish-pink pucker of skin on her cheek, unlike the crafts in the back of the pickup, was hard to keep covered. Makeup only accentuated her check mark with the extra long tail. That cheek drew lots of attention, some of which Darla even welcomed. Like Ort's. As traffic once more moved through the intersection, Darla stepped on the gas with increased vigor.

Previously…

Dr. Rosellen Makeda sets the sketch pad and crayons in front of the patient. The girl, Dr. Makeda estimates, is late teens, early 20s. The patient is covered in bruises and abrasions. Purple half moons sit beneath brown bloodshot eyes. She is Jane Doe to the hospital staff and Sheriff’s Department. Dr. Makeda, in private, refers to the girl as Dar. Wounds on the right forearm, too old to be from the accident, are close approximations to the letters D A R. A wound on the right cheek, this one definitely from the crash, reminds Dr. Makeda of a split pomegranate. She wishes the girl would answer the questions.

What is your name?
Where do you live?
Why were you covered in blood before the car slammed into the tree?

Dr. Rosellen Makeda takes a step back from the bed and waits in silence. The girl keeps her words to herself. The doctor watches as the patient pulls the red one from the small yellow box.

Previously…

I had an active imagination as a child, but maybe it wasn't anything special. My brothers and I were homeschooled so I didn't have much opportunity to compare notes with other kids. I'm sure my interior life as a six-year-old, for instance, was the same more or less as any six-year-old's interior life. Although I did have trouble with arts and crafts. My brothers were very creative and quite prolific in keeping our refrigerator covered in drawings, some of which were even done on paper, but my brain and hands had a communication problem. I mean, I could see the purple giraffe in a red dress and green galoshes but I couldn't draw it. I felt like the image didn't want to leave the warm confines of my imagination. Weird, I know. My father encouraged me just the same and would ask me to describe the giraffe to him, where it was going in its red dress, etc. My mother was afraid I'd fallen victim to perfectionism and pushed a sketch pad and crayons at me every chance she could. "Relax sweetie," she'd say. "Just draw what comes naturally. It will be perfect!" And then I'd stomp off in a snit because I didn't like being told what to do. No picture from Darla. Again. I couldn't really explain it as a kid. It's still hard to put into words, but there are a lot of dress-wearing animals carrying-on inside my head, I can tell you that much. The commotion makes it hard to concentrate.