The Mint Patch Monologue

Tag: writing

  • 30 Summers

    The end of June has me thinking about time…

    My work of 40 hours a week comes in quick, and early on Monday mornings. The daily routine begins with coffee, answering phone calls, answering questions, lots of standing, lots of listening to folks unload their woes. I collect my pay in exchange and go on about my day until another morning ferries me onto the next calendar square. We count the hours, my coworker and I, and bargain with the clock to move quickly…we beg for 5 o clock. How bad our days must be to “wish our lives away” in some sort of ignorance, ignoring our aging bodies while climbing up the trellis of mortality. Yes, the days are long, but the years are getting shorter.

    If I live to be 70, I’ll get another 30 summers.

    Another 30 gardens

    30 pool seasons

    30 more years of perfectly ripe cantaloupes.

    This, of course, is the plan… but what if I only get 5 or 10 more summers, 1 or 2 more?

    If this be my last then let me swim, and sweat, and be wild. Let my skin turn golden brown, my arms and legs go limber in the heat, my hair turn light around my face. 30 more times I’d want to see mist coming up from the lake after a steamy midday thunderstorm makes way for the sun’s return. I’d want to watch the yellow finch perch atop my sunflowers and pluck with delight its seeds, the bumblebees bounce from one bright bloom to another.

    To turn the garden hose against myself and dry off in the afternoon sun, to pour salt on ripe watermelon and spit seeds across the yard. I’d stay drunk on “still-hot-from-the-sun-tomatoes” eating them like apples, one after another. I’d go swimming every, single, day.

    But oh, to think about having 30 more summers leaves me in a state of bliss today. 30 more winters may fade the barn wood of my bones but 30 more springs would trickle a rosy pink back into my cheeks, just as the frozen creeks thaw. 30 more times I could watch the leaves turn from luscious green to bronze, fall onto the dark reflection of the water’s surface and glide away down the river.

    Maybe I am in this time reflection because of a sad conversation I had this week with a patient. A young, 74 years old fellow who had a biopsy on a lung spot came to me with the report. “It’s cancer, and not the kind that’s curable.” He went on to explain that the treatment would be a kind of cruel torture that didn’t interest him, and so he has been acquainted with the hospice program. These are low moments at work, words come slow and sometimes the truth just has to have its own silence in order to exist. He smiled, said thanks, and then him and his wife went on about their day. This must be his last summer, I thought to myself.

    Because I’m thinking of Michael this weekend, I will not let these short years go by without some reverence. I will not let my Monday morning cancel joy this week, and I will not sit back and let another summer fade casually by.

    For a Monday

    Monday mornings start with the wicked alarm
    Threatening you out of bed, filled with dread
    But falsely.
    Because, the world is sweet on Mondays
    Full of beginner’s charm
    My dear you must disarm
    And sip hot coffee against the cool dawn
    Like fresh steps of a summer fawn
    Go out into the day, and find a way
    To love the world.

    -Sarah Justice 2026

    Thank you for reading, and reach out because I DO love to chat!

    justicesarah67@yahoo.com

  • Some order to Feeling

    This month has asked so much from us. My peach tree in full bloom one day and the very next, branches weighed down under heavy snow. Will the buds survive? It’s too soon to tell. The daffodils were laid to rest like patients, the roads froze and cracked, exposing hazards. A warm breeze on an 80 degree day carried in a snowstorm the next, a Trojan horse was welcomed and we bought it. This is the weather doing its own “trying” because this is what change really looks like. Like the buzzing around of confused carpenter bees, like tall virgin grass under ice, our atmosphere is forging in a new direction, and it’s been messy. Next comes the traditional practice of complaining about the weather, a requirement it seems, of being human. But your whining is justified, trust me! Too much of our personality is derived from what’s going on outdoors. Am I a free spirited explorer today? Or a medieval hobbit? Have I proclaimed loyalty to my shorts and sandals again or must I cheat on them in boots. Don’t look, Birkenstocks, I do love you, and …. I thought I was ready but I’m not. Please wait for me. I always loved you over the boots. I am plagued with guilt over teasing the charcoal grill that it may cook for me once again, only to leave it in the cold, uncovered. I owe the house a sincere apology for having the heat and the air conditioner on in the same day. Be easy on me, hvac, I didn’t ask for this! As the wind blew the ornamental pear petals around they mixed with snowflakes and two unlikely sides met each other. Oh the lessons in March of surrender.

    On a Sunday
    Still, on a Sunday, we got a little sun burn and both panted to go inside

    MONDAY, and it didn’t stop snowing until 6 hours past this photo.

    March proves to us there is no order, at times only chaos. In life too, we can be slightly prepared to feel, but never enough prepared. Sit in the sun when you can, play in the snow too. Raise your arms in surrender and worry less. Accepting things out of order is the only way sometimes.

    Some order to feeling

    As much as you can see

    In black and white

    And know

    A door will slam, unexpected

    And rearrange the order

    An out of order 

    Misplaced rage appears 

    fear of loud noises. 

    Some days i am a net

    Parked in a breeze 

    Where birds of sorrow fly low 

    And get caught 

    Too many at a time or none at all

    Unorderly fashioned 

    We can’t instruct the birds or keep them

    In a row

    The feelings come 

    They stay and they go 

    Their feathers break our hearts 

    Before we are ready 

    The chaos of oranges 

    Tumbling onto the floor 

    Only because one is removed 

    Wipes out an arrangement 

    And leaves a mess 

    The sting on an ocean day 

    Comes at a rotten time 

    Who is in charge 

    And shouldn’t we have some order 

    Thank you for reading and as always reach out to me because I DO love to chat!

    readnwrite11@gmail.com