Elvis has left the building

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were it not for the ominous sounds he was emitting every time the key reached for ignition. 

Sounds to scare the gargoyles set in stone and groans to declare protest against attempts to change it’s sedentary state every time, didn’t do much to instill confidence in my partner of his reliability to be my chariot anymore. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were the world to not have shunned the strings of love for the contemporary and much loved “green” laws of emissions. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were the rules of the world not putting him in a scrap yard in two years. 

Were Co2 not have been a thing that fills chatter into the bubbles left by champagne of the polite society, I would still be sitting pretty, whenever time allowed between diapers for mad capers with my hair fluttering in the breeze in Elvis, till he spluttered to a halt.(love blinds my judgment here clearly) 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, him and his shining midnight blue colours that faithfully lit up in the blinkers when I roamed lost in parking lots. His chirruping honk, my guiding light. Homing back into the cocoon that smelt of my different perfumes over the last 13 Years. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were my partner to have shared this blind faith that Elvis wouldn’t defy all odds and not splutter to a halt on me when I have him powered up. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go were I not have a little human being trialing car seats like she was Goldilocks. Making the words of the husband echo in mine along with nostalgic flashes. 

” he needs to go” were the words he had said. ” he needs to go” now mimicked in mine. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were the guy taking him from us not been a doctor of cars. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, were this lovely guy not have had three children to jump in Elvis’s back seat. 

I wouldn’t have let Elvis go, without extracting promises in blood that, Elvis would always shine. 

(ignoring the two years' time line) 

And as all lovers bore with poetry at the end of their love stories, or sit spouting words of wisdom waving their bottled tipple into ears that have fleeting interest, my minds thinking verses too. (minus the tipple but then maybe let me addle the mind a bit too.) 

‘Que Sera Sera ,what will be will be’ sang my mom when I was little, and I sing that to my daughter today.  

Tides change the maps in sand, sand shifts in time without the tides, and the times have tided over into a phase of my life that needs firmer grounds to tread on. 

Hence honking away in another's arms, Elvis has Left the building. 

Pigeon Pot

Wiry,springy,curvy,independent strands that defy gravity, stand up defiantly. One would think years of being straight has got them into rebellion on their death bed. The reference in the lines above are of my hair gone wild on the assumption that having grayed has made them dead because their entire life’s leanings were tending to be straight. 

The fields above had started their color mixing in college owing to genes from a family of greys.So without bothering much I've been tossing them about for a couple of decades, carefree in the breeze with days gone without seeing a brush. 

These days of indulgences seeing their final when a friend of mine called me out. 

Wiry!!!!..that is the word that sprang the hair brush from retirement. 

I have images of a shiny mane as the routine incorporates hundred vigorous strokes a day.But wiry remains wiry.....once a wiry always a wiry!!!! 

The styling of my hair has also been conditioned by the presence of another tiny human in my life. 

Mostly lack of in this case. 

Days in forgiving PJ’s, lounging about with a cup of tea that sees an excellent dipping routine of the digestives. Deft dips aiming to not sacrifice even a single crumb off the biscuit into the depths of tea that’s cooling off in moments spent chasing a crawling human. Excellence in small moments says the lady in white on You tube.....I'm perfecting the art. In ‘the boy’s’ words the art of turning old. 

Bringing me back to wiry and wavy. 

On the day, with all the participants being in place, the tea, the tiny human, the sunshine, the digestives, the scuttling husband on his morning office routine, and the pigeons.... 

Enterrrrrzzzzz pigeons. 

The fluttering machines that lay eggs and defecate in small bits all over my balcony. 

They sit and claw their ways through the Air conditioner’s wires, they hop and lay their tiny defecation bits on the parapet, where I rest my arms and that hot cup of tea.The little succulents , that find not the time in their life to stand hardy and green against the grey elements of the city, die quite instantly under their sharp beaks, getting hauled over into my balcony's corner by these winged creatures in their tireless mission for a nest. 

I love my garden,I love my Tea,I love the tiny human,I hate pigeons. 

Mostly I am very ardent in my following of names that we have tagged to birds, my enthusiasm has also run into buying a binocular, where it hangs around nicely sharing the task of plane spotting in the balcony. 

But specifically, In this case I'm at war with the pigeons. 

Not the little, she follows them with her shiny curious eyes, looking to look into their beady red ones. While they just ignore her, puff up and beak kiss all day, running circles around the other, chasing, flying off in their crescendo to climax within a second. (beats my human brain) 

Early lessons in Johny Bravo style wooing for the little human; for me tons of sighing, shooing and then finally cooing ‘Pigeon’...see ‘Pigeon’ and making peace with all that is around. 

Peace!.....also good for the wiry I believe.