Magnolia Blossoms Read Online Free PDF

older white man I know to be Mr. Davis says as he shuffles in the door. He drops his supplies on a nearby table and starts to unbutton his long sleeved dress shirt.
    “Hey, I ain’t even got in the door yet. Move yourself,” Mr. Curtis, an octogenarian with cataracts so thick that his brown eyes are rimmed milky blue, says while pushing Mr. Davis aside.
    “Ain’t no need for shoving, Curtis. Lord knows why you’re taking this class anyway. You’re blind as a bat, you old fool.”
    “I see what counts. Plus, Sunny says painting is good therapy. Don’t matter none that my paintings come out the way they do, it’s just important that I try. Ain’t that right, Sunny?”
    “That’s very right, Mr. Curtis. Come, let me share some of my positive energy with you.” She takes the old man’s dark, wrinkled hand into hers and pulls him in for a hug. A smile made broader due to his upper dentures being too big for his mouth erupts across his face, and Mr. Davis, a short, stocky bald man in his late seventies turns green with envy. He stomps off to claim the easel set directly in front of Sunny’s station, stops to give me a quick onceover, shakes his head, then continues to set up his supplies in his original location. Great! I can’t even get a second glance from a seventy-something year old pervert. I cinch my robe tighter.
    Sunny helps Mr. Curtis to his easel, and I hear him telling Mr. Davis something about not being able to see, but he sure can feel just fine. Some heated words are exchanged between the two of them, but Ms. Agnes and Ms. Lola Mae show up, so the bickering stops. Obviously sweet on the old men, they giggle like school girls as they set up on either side of Mr. Davis and Mr. Curtis.
    A few minutes later, more pupils come up the walkway, and the classroom looks like a haven for nursing home escapees—all except for one last minute straggler. He is young, like early twenties young, with puffy cheeks that look like they should be on a hoarding chipmunk. His brown hair is heavily oiled and parted to the left, while his beady little eyes are set so close together that I wonder if it’s possible for him to see past his nose. He waddles in, claiming a spot near the door, and I’m curious as to what the strange sound is that I’m suddenly hearing. As he sets up his supplies, I realize the noise is coming from him. Wakeful snoring would be the best descriptor of the rumbling coming from the area.
    Sunny presses a button and the melodious sound of a pan flute wafts through the air. Some might find it relaxing; all I can think of is Ralph Macchio and his karate movies. She encourages everyone to disrobe, giving her spiel about nudity increasing creativity because it puts us in touch with Mother Earth’s energies and such. I only half listen because I’m devastated by the train wreck happening around me. As I watch the people disrobe, a few things become clear: Depends undergarments should sponsor this event, gravity is a friend to no one, and the hair old men lose from the top of their heads isn’t really gone, it just multiplies and retreats to other body parts.
    The only thing more disturbing than watching the cast from Cocoon disrobe is watching the late arrival undress. He pulls his oversized golf shirt over his head, and sets it on the table beside him. An undershirt, that I suspect was originally white but is now ear wax yellow, is the next to come off. My stomach turns when his movement causes one of the larger pimples from his back acne to shoot a load of pus towards Ms. Lola Mae. Both of them seem unfazed by the event. He unbuckles his belt, and the brown polyester slacks he’s wearing practically launch themselves from his body. All that’s left between him and the atmosphere is one pair of underwear that looks five sizes too small. Roll after roll of pasty white flesh gleams with sweat, though the temperature in the room is seventy degrees at most. He bends over to pull a handkerchief from his