Jennifer Hambrick
Blind
“ … so my neighbor shows up on my front porch with this box of squirrels.”
Melanie perches on her chair at the two-top and folds her legs up under her.
“Squirrels?” I ask.
“Yeah. She rings the doorbell and says these baby squirrels were abandoned in their nest and asks if I could take care of them.”
A server in a black apron glides by and leaves two glasses of wine and a dish of pecans roasted in the shell.
“So I took them in.” Melanie picks up a pecan, cracks the shell, and pops the nut meat in her mouth. “I mean, their eyes aren’t even open yet.”
A moment passes. “Well, you know,” I say, “that is kind of what you do.”
Melanie’s forehead furrows and her eyes dart side to side as she chews.
“What do you mean?” she asks, swishing her long ponytail back off her shoulder.
“Well, you’re a therapist. Your clients show up at your doorstep and you take care of them.”
Melanie takes a skein of nubby brown yarn out of her tote bag and tugs out two lengths.
“Hmm. I dunno. You think?”
the chittering of knitting needles dreying season
About the Author
A multi–Pushcart Prize nominee, Jennifer Hambrick placed first in the 2018 Haiku Society of America Haibun Award Competition and authored the haibun collection Joyride (Red Moon Press). She also won the Stevens Prize of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies for In the High Weeds and was featured in American Life in Poetry. She lives in Columbus, Ohio. jenniferhambrick.com.