FruitGuy Noir in Spring is Sprung

Tuesday was on my calendar for a meeting on Monday. It had been there since Thursday penciled it in on Friday. I was confusing myself as to who was what-day and what-day was who so I tried to clear my mind by counting backward from a coil-of-rope-snare to an arch-shaped-bone using the ancient Egyptian numbering system. That steadied me.

When Tuesday walked in first thing on Monday, All-Heck broke loose. All-Heck was my ferret and it took all week to find him in my bottom desk drawer. “What can I help you with?” I asked Tuesday.

“I’m having a hard time with this Spring Robin.”

I looked at the old mattress spring in her hand. “Not much I can do with that,” I said. “And my name isn’t Robin.”

“Oh,” she said, tucking the spring back into her bag, “not this thing. That spring’s been sprung. I mean the Spring Robin that’s singing outside my window each morning. I think it’s actually telling me something.”

I looked skeptically at myself in the mirror just to see if I was convinced of my own doubt. “Well,” I said. “What do you think the bird’s saying?”

Tuesday paused. “First, I thought it was the smoke alarm. Then, that maybe Instagram was doing an auditory feed. But then I thought, maybe it was just . . . Happy?

Tuesday was onto something. Something big.

“I guess when it starts to warm up and the sun comes out and food starts growing again, it can make a sad bird into a happy one,” she smiled.

“Yeah, kid,” I said, leaning casually into a backbend. “It’s sometimes the simple things that help us recognize beauty and change. Like standing on your head and eating an upside-down cake or using a stethoscope to hear millipedes dance. Spring trees flowering now means that summer fruit is just around the corner.

“A New Spring – that sounds nice,” she sighed and patted her bag. “But what do I do with this old spring?”

“Have you ever heard of spring shoes?” I asked.

“Is that a new fashion?” she said.

“New Clown-fashion using recycled springs. You’ll be jumping higher than ever before.”

“Thursday,” I called out. “Pencil in Tuesday for a clown-shoe fitting on Saturday.”