The shadow knows
I joke about having antiques-store ESP. There’s no possible way to look at every single thing without going into a blood-sugar episode or getting a migraine, so I’ll say, “I’m going to find a birthday gift for Robin.” And then I will. A few weeks ago, I was eating supper in my kitchen, and I said, “I wish I had a yellow metal rolling cart like Grandma Hayes used to have.” I promptly forgot about it, then walked right up to one the next day. Christmas shopping with my friend Shannon recently at a great old warehouse of a place in Edinburgh (Indiana, of course), I said, “This is where I found my orange Carnival juice glasses a few years ago. I could use some more of those.” And there they were, one aisle over. Shannon marveled.
It’s a random talent, only marginally useful, but I’ll take what I can get. Dog photos, like books fallen open in the middle, give me the same weird feeling a lot of times, a vague intuition. This one in particular gives off a feeling of unease, with its weird pitching angle, its dog cowering on a strange perch, its dark slash of a man silhouetted at right. What is he doing there, that forbidding shadow blotting out the lines of the house?
