Margie, for my imaginary journal

Margie and I were having coffee as usual on a Thursday when I noticed the light on this brick wall near us. “Before we leave,” I said, not wanting to be too pushy, “I’d like to get a photograph of you against that wall with the light and the textures.”

“Oh yeah,” she agreed, “that’s a great wall.” She took a sip of coffee. “But if you wait, and the sun goes, you’ll kick yourself. Let’s do it now. I still have enough of the artist in me to know a good setup when I see one.” 

Standing up and sitting down made her dizzy, and the coffee did cool off, but I showed her the images in the camera, and she was pleased. “And what do you do with these pictures?” 

I explained again what Blip is. I showed her the last one among the Douglas pines, but she still didn’t quite get it. I read her some of the comments. “And where are these people? And how do you know them?” I told her she has an international fan-base, and she leaned back and roared with laughter. 

Later she was talking about her son the doctor who works in Manhattan. He’s retiring in June, coming to see her with his partner. “This partner is perfect for him,” she said. “He hasn’t always chosen so well in the past, but I’m happy with this one. They're in perfect harmony, these two, even though this man is much younger. They’re inseparable, and they’re very sweet together.” I asked if she thinks we get better at choosing as we age. She gave it some thought.

“No. But I think we get to know ourselves better. That’s the key. You can put that in your what-do-you-call-it.” 

Blip?

“Yeah. Tell ‘em I said that,” she said twinkling, as if she thinks this Blip thing is my imaginary friend, and she’s willing to play along.