Always there are, there seems to be, little sparks. That littlest ember that smolders, smokes and flutters until it's strong enough to ignite a fire.

I have a shoebox full of dead people. I’ve been collecting these dead people for years. In all fairness, some of them may not be dead, but I’m sure that most are.

I’m positive they’ve been discarded. Perhaps unwanted by their “loved ones,” left behind in the aftermath of a flood or fire, orphaned through misadventure, passed down the line, passed from hand to unsentimental hand, no longer a treasure to behold, no longer a cherished memory . . . or perhaps sold at an auction or a flea market as an “instant” relative.

"Kathy, who's this handsome fellow in this very nice fake Victorian picture frame from Target?"

I am very selective when it comes to the dead people in my shoebox. They are not chosen randomly. I don't even stumble upon them. They find me as I rummage, sift, sort, peruse . . . through wherever I find myself on my weekend adventures to antique stores, thrift stores and junk emporiums.

They seem to talk to me. Tell me things. They say; "Please embellish me, tell my story."

They--well most of them--are very good at telling me when to stop the requested embellishments or storytelling.
“Enough.”
“You’re done.”
“Please stop before you muck it up.”
"That's not my history."

Over-the-shoulder Cautionaries. (Please allow my invention.)

Sometimes I don’t hear them as well as they would like to be heard. They can be cross and impatient. But sometimes my hearing isn't so good. Yes, it's true. Sometimes . . . . Oh, let's not go down that road, E-.

There are times when they need to linger. I must allow this lingering, this Mulling-Something-Over, these musing, this pandering, and these ruminations. I'm not fond of premeditations because that word is thrown around the courtroom the way people sneeze.

I must allow for "gestation--"

--savor the "spark?"

There’s a dead woman in Los Alamos who lingers. A beautiful woman. A theatrical woman holding a flower—if I’m remembering correctly—garbed in what looks to be velvet, and dramatically posed on a settee.

She nestles with the others in a blue cottage on Bell Street. I held her in my hands. I hesitated because I only had a big bill in my pocket. Didn't want to break the bank.

Her whispers are haunting. Her allure is inviting. I shall return to Los Alamos this weekend to retrieve her . . . and add her to my shoebox.

She has a future in INSPIRATION; the SPARK of CREATIVITY.