Butterfly Weeds by Laura Miller

and then face me, waiting for my reply.
     
                  I hesitated as my eyes feverishly darted to the photo again. It could be anyone up there. He’d never know, or at least, a girl could hope anyway.
     
                  “Did you see the front page today?” I a sked in answer to his question.
     
                  “No, what’s on it?” he asked, reaching in my direction.
     
                  I reluctantly handed him the newspaper, face up, then watched his features for his reaction. I could see his eyes widen as a gaping smile broke across his face.
     
                  “Well, I’ll be. That’s Spiderman alright,” he said, cracking a full smile.
     
                  He read the caption, and then I watched as his eyes returned to the photo again. He snickered some more and then continued.
     
                  “Crazy nut. Well, that’s one way to get more dates. He might not be my hero, but I bet he’s somebody’s,” he said, chuckling and winking an eye in my direction.
     
                  Oh, God, did he know?
     
                  He handed me back the newspaper and shuffled toward the toaster resting on the countertop at the other end of the kitchen.
     
                  Well, if he did know, at least he was going to let it go. I sighed a sigh of relief, and then I held the paper in front of me once again, my grass ring in view, and got lost one last time in its front page image and in the night I hoped I’d never forget.
     
                  Moments went by, and the memory just kept replaying itself in my head. And before I knew it, I was smiling like a goofy, little kid, lost in my own little world, until my dad’s words from across the room suddenly jerked me back to reality again:
     
                  “By the way, you never told me what you did to that ankle of yours.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
 
     
     
     
     
     

 
    Snow Globe
     
 
     
     
     
                  I left Will wrestling with the patchwork quilt as I ventured to the edge of the bluff. I could see downtown beginning to come to life like someone had just shaken the summer version of a tiny snow globe. Little street lights were illuminating miniature figures that were making their way around the old, red-brick buildings and paved streets. Only this time, instead of the mini people donning tiny, wool coats, they wore shorts and tee shirts, and freshly cut grass took the place of fake snow, devouring the ground where the mini people walked. I wondered for a second if I shook it up, would grass fly everywhere?
     
                  Between a set of railroad tracks and the muddy Missouri River , a life existed – one of a more mature nature, if you will. Only several shops constituted New Milford ’s downtown – a dime store, a tiny, one-room movie theater, the post office, a bait shop and a restaurant that changed hands every so often. They were the lucky ones – the only businesses that had survived a levee break in the last flood.
     
                  A freshly red-painted train caboose had, for decades now, made its home on a green, little patch of the world outside of the one-room post office. Every small town that I had ever been to had had a caboose. It was as common as a water tower adorned with the high school’s mascot or a lumberyard in the center of town, I guess. Although, now that I was thinking about it, the caboose did seem a little odd. What purpose did it serve – or was it just for decoration? Did the elders of all small towns really think it was ornamental – like a welcome sign or flowers? Welcome to New Milford . Can I interest you in a photo next to our caboose?
     
                  My forehead wrinkled slightly as I pondered to myself the great questions of modern times before my eyes