“It’s a beautiful day” someone said. I mulled for a moment, all quiet and then the same voice said “You probably don’t think somebody would talk to your back”.
True. I turned around, it was Bobalong.
His presence explained the stale warm waft I had sniffed, and there he was outside the market and chewing on a stick of rhubarb his briskers smattered with bit of red. Nonchalant nonetheless.
“You could have been talking to the sky” I said.
“I’m normal” he said “I don’t talk to the sky”
” I’m normal and I talk to the sky. ” I said. A stalemate.
The sky answers all of my big questions and it answers even when I look up and ask the same thing over and over. The sky doesn’t speak in a growly voice like Bobalong, nor is it judgmental around what is or isn’t normal.