More Dumpling

The morning was a pup, Dumpling was used to the early rising and loved greeting the sun. Her cottage in town was a relic, a treasure of a place, sitting over the mudflats. It was a short walk home from The Beanery and by the time she pushed in her lavender door she was yawning. Normally, she only drank coffee at night. The reverse factor. She toed off her boots, tucked them onto the slatted shelf and padded across the sweet space old --the parlor. "An old-school name," Dumpling remembered telling her nephew when he was no older than three. "where family would gather to mourn the passing of loved ones." The boy was curious about 'passing'. His Aunty told him, "When we've worn these bodies out, we pass from them, some people say we die. We say, we pass from here ... to there." Chuckling to herself, Dumpling loved thinking of Kalani, Little Teacher, who was now a full-fledged card carrying Journeyman Carpenter. Time passes.

The scones could wait in the soft patchwork carrier. Made of recycled silk sari ribbons stitched with cross-stitches and lined with the flannel sleeves from a favorite work shirt, it was a nest for precious things. Smiling, and then yawning. She headed for the bed.

"Just a little nap," she said out loud.
"Likely story," it was her Spirit Cat.
"Don't you ever sleep!" Dumpling snapped knowing full well she depended on Spirit to keep her in line, or at the very least, keep her on the broad trail with her name on it.
"I smell scones," the purring voice of her Familiar sounded. "A nap would be good, and then a walk down to the beach. That old crow has been making a racket of commentary. Tide's out, we could see what that's all about." Family gods are persistent, and especially vocal when humans were caught up in distraction or illusion. Between Spirit and the Black Birds Dumpling knew with certainty it was time for a nap.

A cool breeze rippled the eyelet curtains bringing the brackish smell of mud and water. The transitional space that is the estuary fit Dumpling's domicile. Fresh water streams ran beneath the sandy base that was the island's floor. At one time in the long ago salmon would have made their way up the stream that used to be. The People's name for this place was Where salmon come. Few knew its true name, and even fewer could sing the songs that clam and gooey duck longed to hear. They would gladly give themselves to the ones who sang those songs. There was so much to remember, the round one wondered about having enough time for all of it.

The picture of Dumpling and her Familiar looked back at her as she slid into horizontal. She gave the framed memory a loving peck, checked the shallow glass bowl for fresh water and curled her knees up. Sleep came quickly, her dreams primed by the posture of the small black cat.