“Don’t get crazy” is what he said to me before he left. As the door clicked behind him I stood there pondering his final words. Don’t. Get. Crazy. What exactly did that mean for him? to me? Don’t get crazy with what? Left to my own devices I was rich with options. My imagination gave me much to chose from. From where I was standing he could have meant a million things.
Don’t get crazy thinking your hair isn’t rinsed all the way. Don’t stand under the shower spray separating every single strand of hair, turning to the left, turning to the right, tipping your head back until you are drinking the water. Twisting and imaging the soap still deep on the scalp. It’s rinsed already.
Dont get crazy thinking the wind is going to knock over that big-azzed tree leaning in the yard. Don’t stare at it, convinced the angle has changed or the roots are more exposed than yesterday. Don’t call me claiming you heard the trunk crack or the branches creak because it didn’t. It’s not going anywhere right now.
Don’t get crazy thinking the cat is dying. Don’t stand over her waiting for her to twitch her tail or open an eye. Don’t poke at her. She is just hot and probably tired from running away from you.
Don’t starve yourself thinking you are fatter than a pot-bellied pig. Don’t nibble your dinner in front of the fridge thinking you are saving calories. You’ll only get hungrier later. Then you’ll really be in trouble with yourself.
I am standing there. Still pondering the Don’t. Get. Crazy. when the door reopens. His head appears and I open my mouth to ask. Cagey. He said cagey. Now, what does that mean?