What does it mean? I ask myself this question a lot. Like anyone else, I see some images and understand them, but more often than I’d like I see puzzles.

Any capable writer or actor can watch a stranger for a few minutes and tell a long story. After decades of training, I can tell you why that man in the hardware store rubs his left elbow, why the waitress stares at my blue nails, why last night’s dream about the tornado means you should clean out your closet.

I could tell you because it’s not difficult to figure out, but any story could be a tale.

Another question I’ve often asked myself: How can it be? This betrays a belief that I understand how things are and what they mean. Yet, we’ve established that’s not true. What is it I am really asking?

The other day, our youngest house guest put down a slice of pizza, declared his displeasure and demanded something else for dinner. I looked at his mother, a blood relative of Pete’s. She said, “What else do you have to offer?”

Maybe the question is What basic thing about this situation do I not understand?

Our house guests departed before we resorted to violence, but it was so close I’d started whispering. A week of sugary thoughts won’t sweeten my tart disposition.

Tonight, it’s raining and lovely Topaz sleeps on my lap. Drusy and Sweetpea doze on a chair, still jittery after strangers left their house. Tonight’s stranger may rent the empty rooms upstairs. The cats and I love quiet and carpet between our toes.

I could tell you why the cab driver quit smoking, why the woman on the bench clutches an old photo, why you never answer on the first ring. I could tell you everything I see. I don’t know what it means.