Still very busy today catching up about the house, I’m posting another entry from an old journal. Every word is true, not even the names have been changed to protect the guilty: Originally published Sept. 4, 2007 under the title Stolen Pleasures.
Forgive me, Father in Heaven, for I have sinned. I picked wildflowers for my own pleasure as I walked through the park today! I know it’s a sin; I think there’s even a sign posted to say don’t do it, but, dare I say the Devil made me do it?
You see, it was like this. The day you sent was extraordinarily beautiful, skies blue and clear with the sun smiling down, the mountains looking on with approval, and these little yellow flowers kept nodding at me as I passed by. Suddenly, before I knew what I was doing, I was bending down and picking them! Not one, Father, not even two or three, but…four! Four sumptuous yellow blossoms whose seduction I could resist no longer.
I was immediately sorry for my actions, 55 years of self- and societal-induced guilt clutched at my very soul. But my heart continued to skip beats as I imagined how simple and lovely they would look in my house after I got them home safely. But wait, it gets worse!
You see, even I, nefarious creature that I am, knew that I must hide the evidence. For, what if someone saw me with this forbidden bounty? So I tucked them under my sweatshirt. (Thank Heavens the morning was brisk!) No sooner was my ugly deed done than I see a lovely senior lady citizen coming into my range of view. I gather my guilty self up tall and straight, shoulders back. I determine myself not to look guilty. Matching my brisk pace to hers as we pass each other, I chirp brightly, Good morning.
Good morning to you, she says back.
But I go for one better. Beautiful day! I say.
Indeed! she says over her shoulder.
And, I assure you, Father, she was none the wiser of my dastardly deed. So I continued to walk, praying that my stolen pl(tr)easures would not fall out and expose themselves to curious passersby. I did worry some that they might not survive this adventure but soon put the thought aside. Surely anything as delicate and lovely as they that could, overnight, pop out of and survive this desert landscape could survive a few minutes rolled up in the band of a sweatshirt.
As quickly as I could, I left the park and started home through my favorite shortcut, stopping only briefly to retrieve my yellow lassies, granting them fresh air to breathe once more. I hurried home, never slowing my pace lest someone glance out their window and think that I’d picked at their gardens. Oh no, I’d never EVER do that. I do have my limits!
Now, as I confess my transgressions, the yellow faces of my contraband smile slyly at me from tiny bud vases tucked into the arms of tiny brass rabbits on my desktop. I have the distinct feeling that these ladies had popped out of the ground looking for adventure. I can only hope that they are content spending their final days on earth in my admiring company.
And, truly, my guilt is sufficient that I promise never ever to do it again. I will try to resist temptation forevermore and not stoop so low as to take your floral creations from whence you seeded them. From this day forward, I will admire them only in passing and leave them in the field for everyone who has the eyes to see.
And I’ve been good ever since, Father, I swear! What? Really? Swear is a bad word?