A sweet Southern woman wearing a cherry red cardigan and plaid scarf
with her blind white poodle likes the Puppy-cino, a dollop of whipped cream in a cup.
Her name must be at least two syllables and she oozes class in her silver convertible.
She weaves tales about her various bridge partners, her 40-acre farm where she raises goats, and the husbands that have passed.
She is like a writing life.
Always telling strangers personal information that they will never forget.
Nothing is off limits when there is a story to be told to perfect strangers.
The inhibition of a Southern white lady and the continuous talking of the minutiae of daily life with sales clerks, baristas, and plumbers is like the openness is takes to dare to write your thoughts on paper.
The bravery of Miss Puppycino’s chatter is the grease of civilization.
The flowing words from a Southern drawl make life bearable in a robotic world.
She is the music in the doctor’s office. The poetry in the dictionary. The art on the letterhead.
I hope to meet her again.