Spanish Moss

Like a curly curtain dangling from old oak branches, it reaches down to the ground, a veil of fungus never looked so lovely.  A telltale sign you're in the South and that squeeters, feasting on the salty human skin of any fool found outside,  and locusts, chirping in the dusky twilight,  are out cutting a rug.   Its the backdrop of my childhood and one of the enchanting qualities of my hometown (aka "The city of enchantment.")

Last time I was home, I found myself gazing up into its fuzzy underneath and dreaming about sunflares that could not be captured. In just a glance I was mesmerized by how orderly and messy it was at the same time.  How is that even possible? You can pull a piece loose without even a tangle, yet it holds together like ants in a swimming pool.

Walking underneath it was  like walking through rows of sheets hanging on the line, flapping and billowing in the breeze, light touches of them tickling my cheek as the wind made them dance like the flicker of a flame. Being underneath a cluster of tree loving jellyfish, it reminded me of being a little girl laying on my back on my bed with my head hanging off the side, my hair flowing towards the shag carpet. I can hear my sisters playing the piano in the background.

And what about those misplaced strands .  .  . or are they right where they are supposed to be? Who can say for sure, and maybe what looks like would be lonely is actually really peaceful, but how does something so intertwined come loose?   Spanish moss.