In the remains of the tea cup, you gaze to see the ghostly future, the scent of marsala green chai tea from Impla tickling your nostrils. In it white boots from bosnia dance to a music mix froma tape of seventies tunes~ The Carpenters, John Denver, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young drawn in neat small letters on it's faded memorex label surface. You had smiled remember how you were astounded when you found it in the wee hours of this morning, this morning of your father's death. It was in his rope box, which sat in the carport for years neglected next to the bright printed California Garlic woodbox that smelled of his hippie flower child days. The box was still rich with the aroma's of garlic, patchouli, and far east curries.When had that rope box arrived there? at somepoint after his and your mom's divorce, although really they were pagan handfasted or something years ago in the eighties. He had hung out with mysterious diva's with names like Trembling Rose, Agate Star, and Violet Dawn. You think of him now, looking into the cup, and you wonder about the white boots from bosnia, their slick surface and how you stomped about in them when you were nine or ten. Where are they now you wonder? Somewhere you suppose dancing glorious in the moonlight where faeries swirl their eyes like cats on hashish, mushrooms and acid. Then you go out to call your brother to tell him the funeral will be on Tuesday at the Freewill Mt Baptist church promptly at 10 p.m. You wonder if his son will or won't wear his new nose ring.
Prompts were- White plastic boots from bosnia brought by purple mark, a bag of Impla Chai green marsala tea brought by me, a musix mix card pulled from carla's deck, and a prompt slip from carla-Dad's rope box sat next to a woodbox that read California Garlic.
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