The Whimsy

There’s more I want you to know. It’s not just the last thing, the sad thing, where I’m melancholy. There’s also the joyful thing, the whimsy. Let me tell you about the whimsy. 

The whimsy is when dry leaves spiral upwards with the wind and swirl across the pavement in fall. The whimsy is when your hand brushes up against his knee and you lock pinkies. Just pinkies. Oh, but then your hand creeps into his. That’s the whimsy too. And the whimsy is checkered skirts, mangoes, weathered journals, typewriters, rusted keys, hidden doors in walls by the bay, heart beats, and quarters. It’s the flutters. 

And I’m consumed by the whimsy. It laughs at the melancholy in a warm-hearted way, it invites it to play, to see the sad things as beautiful, and the beautiful things as whimsical, and the whimsical things as ordinary, because ordinary is wonderfully constant. 

So don’t feel sorry when you see me melancholy. I’m just gathering toys for the whimsy. It’s a delightful creature. We’re such good friends. No, I’m not lonely. I’ve got mangoes and checkered skirts and sometimes I listen for your heartbeats. Sneakily. I can’t help it. It soothes me. 

Yesterday I was melancholy. But I’m better now. I’ve got the whimsy.


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