All I can hear is the constant cawing of the crows outside, they flock in the pine tree there because the branches are thick and there is ample space to hide and peer in windows and spy on the comings and goings of the young people here who walk with the striding confidence of youth. I wonder if they spy in my windows too. And what they might see. But I know that I watch them, as I eat my morning breakfast, an English muffin with peanut butter and honey, or maybe a fried egg, and while I look at my food as I eat and taste the sweetness I also see the crows eating worms or dancing around in the grass that is just barely green with the snow melted and the sun finally shining. It shines differently now, now that winter seems to be on the wane, now that the days are longer and the air is warmer and even the clouds look different, like spring clouds instead of winter clouds. All I can hear is the crow outside.
When you called on the phone and we tried to have a conversation of what we were doing with our days, what we were reading or thinking about, all I could do was watch the crow dance. It was one claw up, then the other, and a flutter of wings that were such a deep black I thought maybe they had caught a bit of the night in them and held the night tightly in the feathers where it couldn’t get away as the rest of the night disappeared around the globe and was night somewhere else besides here. You talked and I listened, or half listened, and still watched the crow dance. I tried to mimic it and you asked me what I was doing because you could hear my breathing change, and maybe I missed a place where I should have said uh-huh and I didn’t. I said I was doing a crow dance, shaking a tail feather, right? Isn’t that what we always said as kids, running around the playground? We were shaking a tail feather, doing a dance with our behinds wagging out there in the breeze as if they were detached from the rest of our bodies and dancing all on their own out there, so far out. You weren’t sure whether to laugh or to be annoyed that I wasn’t listening. So I told you, its ok, you can be annoyed, I am sorry. I am listening now. Its just that the crows outside are making so much noise and all I can do is stand at the window and watch them as they spy back at me, or hop from one branch to another then disappear in the shadows of the pine tree. Someone throws a cigarette butt out the window from the floor above mine and I want to yell up at them, say stop that, what do you think you are doing littering in the crow yard, distracting the crow dance? But I don’t, and instead I turn my attention back to you, and accidentally caw into the phone.
August 12, 2009
One Page 55
I thought the woman was dead. But she wasn’t. She was just sitting in her red pickup truck looking like she was dead. Her head was leaning against the window, her shiny silver barrette glittering in the sunlight. I watched her for a moment as I walked by. And then she moved. So I knew she wasn’t dead. But I wondered what I would have done if she was dead. Or if I would even have known whether she was dead. It is hard to tell through a car window whether someone is dead or not, head slumped over, hair falling in face.
The glittering barrette seemed to have more life than the woman did. But the woman is fine, she isn’t dead, I think she was just writing a letter, or finishing her radio program, or reading the last pages of a novel before she returned it to the library. I walked on.
She was still dead in my mind, even though I had seen her move. Even now, hours later, she still looked dead in my mind. My initial thought of her left a lasting impression. I imagined her being discovered, dead in her truck, days later, the smell of rotting flesh that had been sitting in the sun for several days seeping out of the truck and into the air and causing much alarm to all of those who walked by. But the problem is that they did walk by, they didn’t stop to see if she was alive or not, and so she rotted away and was ignored by all who passed. She was even ignored by me, who passed along like the rest, all thinking about where we were going and what we were going to say when we met the person we were meeting, or wondering whether the bus had already come and gone and I would be late for work, and would have to work late to make up for it, and I didn’t make coffee this morning and now it is far too late to stop and get some before I get on the bus, unless I missed the bus and then I have plenty of time to get coffee before the next bus.
But the woman still rots. And her body is prematurely decomposing because of the sun, and she is liquidating into her seat and the odor is seeping into the cushions and none of us walking by think long enough to feel sorry for whoever has to removed her from the truck, maybe having to use a spoon to scoop up her body that is falling to pieces and mushy like a sponge cake that has been sitting for too long and has soaked up too much liquid and simply turns to a puddle. Maybe all that will be left by the time she is removed is her clothing left in her slouched over position like a ghost had worn them and then left for another dimensional existence. Her shoes are still resting near the gas pedal filled only with nylons in a taupe color. Her barrette has fallen to the floor of the truck and rests no longer glittering in the sun because it is hidden in the shade.
The glittering barrette seemed to have more life than the woman did. But the woman is fine, she isn’t dead, I think she was just writing a letter, or finishing her radio program, or reading the last pages of a novel before she returned it to the library. I walked on.
She was still dead in my mind, even though I had seen her move. Even now, hours later, she still looked dead in my mind. My initial thought of her left a lasting impression. I imagined her being discovered, dead in her truck, days later, the smell of rotting flesh that had been sitting in the sun for several days seeping out of the truck and into the air and causing much alarm to all of those who walked by. But the problem is that they did walk by, they didn’t stop to see if she was alive or not, and so she rotted away and was ignored by all who passed. She was even ignored by me, who passed along like the rest, all thinking about where we were going and what we were going to say when we met the person we were meeting, or wondering whether the bus had already come and gone and I would be late for work, and would have to work late to make up for it, and I didn’t make coffee this morning and now it is far too late to stop and get some before I get on the bus, unless I missed the bus and then I have plenty of time to get coffee before the next bus.
But the woman still rots. And her body is prematurely decomposing because of the sun, and she is liquidating into her seat and the odor is seeping into the cushions and none of us walking by think long enough to feel sorry for whoever has to removed her from the truck, maybe having to use a spoon to scoop up her body that is falling to pieces and mushy like a sponge cake that has been sitting for too long and has soaked up too much liquid and simply turns to a puddle. Maybe all that will be left by the time she is removed is her clothing left in her slouched over position like a ghost had worn them and then left for another dimensional existence. Her shoes are still resting near the gas pedal filled only with nylons in a taupe color. Her barrette has fallen to the floor of the truck and rests no longer glittering in the sun because it is hidden in the shade.
Desert
A lonely little store and gas pump stand is the only beacon of life in a deserted dessert of sand and tumbleweed. A woman sits out front on a metal folding lawn chair with plastic woven slats that leave red lines in her skin. The slats are disintegrating because of the sun and the shreds that stick up scratch the woman’s legs, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her face is blank of any expression, either restful or with so few interactions with other people she has forgotten what it means to show expression. Her eyes are pallid and gray, as if they too are bleached from the sun. The woman has owned the store for most of her life, taking it over at a young age from her grandfather who had passed away long ago from lung cancer, which was no surprise after sixty years of smoking. The woman thought she had learned her lesson from his death, but ten years later she too picked up smoking and now sat outside in the sun, skin wrinkled and dark, smoking one cigarette after another. The only event that marked that passing of time was when one cigarette burned down to the stub and she threw it in the bucket that sat next to the chair and lit another one.
Once in a while a truck would roll by. Sometimes they stopped for gas, or a pack of cigarettes, or a bottle of water and a bag of chips. There was no other gas station for many miles around, so she got the unlucky drivers who rolled in on the last drop of gas, desperate from the heat, and grateful for another face that wasn’t made of sand. The cars and trucks that pulled in were always covered in dust, and the faces were covered in dust, and the children’s hands were covered in dust because they had been stuck out of the windows grabbing at the air and the blowing sand and occasionally a piece of tumbleweed that had blown up from under the tires.
The woman was pleasant to the people that stopped, but never said more than she needed to. She wasn’t looking for conversation, she was happier to exchange money and see people off. She was more at ease watching the backs of the cars or trucks drive away than the fronts of cars or trucks pulling in. But she always had a vague smile ready for her customers because she felt that they expected that after so many miles of seeing no one. She, too, was covered in dust from sitting outside and catching the sand and dirt and pieces of tumbleweed that blew by in the constant light wind. Sometimes the wind grew harsher and the sand bit her cheeks so her cheeks were always red both from the biting sand and the constant sun. Her teeth were browned from smoking and her hands and arms were wrinkled from the glare and deeply tanned. But her legs were pasty white underneath the jeans that she wore everyday. They hadn’t seen the sun in many years; they only felt the heat coming through. Her boots were dusty, and the hat that she wore sometimes was dusty, and her store windows were dusty, and the interior of her store had gradually collected dust as well so everything that was bought had a fine layer of sand on it that the customer would brush off. If the customer had found the layer of sand in a store in the city, they surely would have left and gone somewhere else for fresher goods. But here, after so many miles of nothing, no one seemed to notice because their eyes were covered in sand as well. Most people that drove through this way, except for the truck drivers, weren’t prepared for such a long stretch of nothing. They never brought enough food or water and were never prepared mentally to deal with endless sand dunes dotted by tumbleweed. They always walked into the store with a glazed look on their faces, with the feeling that they had been away from society for a very long time, even if it had only been a few hours. They almost forgot how to speak, or how to interact with other people. Conversations in the cars, if there were multiple people, had long since ceased because the endless landscape led to endless nothingness in their minds, even their brains were covered in dust.
The woman was used to this. She treated everyone with care because the customers were always a bit shocked and confused to be out of the sun’s glare and to see something with more color than sand. Once in a while, when there hadn’t been a customer for several hours, the woman pulled out her broom from the closet and swept the floor. When the sun wasn’t too bright, she even swept the stoop outside of the store; and on a rare cloudy day she would sweep around the gas pumps and polish the glass. Sometimes she even hosed down the sign.
The woman never waited for anyone to come, she didn’t sit on her plastic chair looking down the stretch of highway that ran to the right and the left. She just sat on her chair, smoking. Sometimes she did a crossword puzzle from a book she had found under her grandfather’s bed after he died. He had completed the first few in pencil, but the marks had mostly faded and nearly disappeared. But the rest of the book was blank and she worked through each one with pen because she didn’t want her marks to disappear, she wanted her letters to last and last. She wondered who would find the crossword puzzle book under her bed.
Once in a while a truck would roll by. Sometimes they stopped for gas, or a pack of cigarettes, or a bottle of water and a bag of chips. There was no other gas station for many miles around, so she got the unlucky drivers who rolled in on the last drop of gas, desperate from the heat, and grateful for another face that wasn’t made of sand. The cars and trucks that pulled in were always covered in dust, and the faces were covered in dust, and the children’s hands were covered in dust because they had been stuck out of the windows grabbing at the air and the blowing sand and occasionally a piece of tumbleweed that had blown up from under the tires.
The woman was pleasant to the people that stopped, but never said more than she needed to. She wasn’t looking for conversation, she was happier to exchange money and see people off. She was more at ease watching the backs of the cars or trucks drive away than the fronts of cars or trucks pulling in. But she always had a vague smile ready for her customers because she felt that they expected that after so many miles of seeing no one. She, too, was covered in dust from sitting outside and catching the sand and dirt and pieces of tumbleweed that blew by in the constant light wind. Sometimes the wind grew harsher and the sand bit her cheeks so her cheeks were always red both from the biting sand and the constant sun. Her teeth were browned from smoking and her hands and arms were wrinkled from the glare and deeply tanned. But her legs were pasty white underneath the jeans that she wore everyday. They hadn’t seen the sun in many years; they only felt the heat coming through. Her boots were dusty, and the hat that she wore sometimes was dusty, and her store windows were dusty, and the interior of her store had gradually collected dust as well so everything that was bought had a fine layer of sand on it that the customer would brush off. If the customer had found the layer of sand in a store in the city, they surely would have left and gone somewhere else for fresher goods. But here, after so many miles of nothing, no one seemed to notice because their eyes were covered in sand as well. Most people that drove through this way, except for the truck drivers, weren’t prepared for such a long stretch of nothing. They never brought enough food or water and were never prepared mentally to deal with endless sand dunes dotted by tumbleweed. They always walked into the store with a glazed look on their faces, with the feeling that they had been away from society for a very long time, even if it had only been a few hours. They almost forgot how to speak, or how to interact with other people. Conversations in the cars, if there were multiple people, had long since ceased because the endless landscape led to endless nothingness in their minds, even their brains were covered in dust.
The woman was used to this. She treated everyone with care because the customers were always a bit shocked and confused to be out of the sun’s glare and to see something with more color than sand. Once in a while, when there hadn’t been a customer for several hours, the woman pulled out her broom from the closet and swept the floor. When the sun wasn’t too bright, she even swept the stoop outside of the store; and on a rare cloudy day she would sweep around the gas pumps and polish the glass. Sometimes she even hosed down the sign.
The woman never waited for anyone to come, she didn’t sit on her plastic chair looking down the stretch of highway that ran to the right and the left. She just sat on her chair, smoking. Sometimes she did a crossword puzzle from a book she had found under her grandfather’s bed after he died. He had completed the first few in pencil, but the marks had mostly faded and nearly disappeared. But the rest of the book was blank and she worked through each one with pen because she didn’t want her marks to disappear, she wanted her letters to last and last. She wondered who would find the crossword puzzle book under her bed.
One Page 54
Anyway—you want a fresh slice of tomato? The man across the counter grinned at me showing a full set of gleaming teeth with silver caps on his molars and a piece of lettuce wedged in between two of his bottom teeth. No, no thanks. No tomato. I hate tomatoes. And, I thought silently to myself, I hate you. Your grin frightens the bejeezus out of me. Those shining eyes, my god, where did this man come from? Straight out of an evil cartoon with the devils horns hidden underneath his blue and white stripped train conductors hat, a replica, and a poor one at that.
He moved along down the counter to help other customers. I thanked my god damn lucky stars that I was only a stranger around these parts, passing though, on to new sights after this breakfast that tastes like deep fried oil that had smoldered for a long while in a pot with a chicken leg and a ham bone and a few worn out pieces of celery in an excuse for god only knows what.
I shoveled the remnants of food around on my plate, watching the trail of grease catching the glint of florescent lights above and looking like a trail that a slug had left behind, so green and translucent and gooey and solidifying right before my eyes. I swallowed. My stomach turned.
The grinning man reappeared out of nowhere to refill my coffee. No, no thanks, I said and placed my hand over my cup. The brown water was not coffee and couldn’t even call itself coffee and I wondered how often the grinds were even changed for newly brewed pots and wondered whether I was really so far from anywhere that I wouldn’t be able to find a cup of coffee that even resembled coffee and wondered whether the people around here thought this brown slush water was actually. As soon as I moved my hand away from my coffee cup, the grinning man pounced on it and refilled it anyhow. At least it was free refills, after wasting a dollar and a quarter for brown water that I could have dished out of the sewer.
The lettuce remnant had relocated and was now wedged in his top teeth and had disintegrated a bit. He must have swallowed the other little bit, and I wondered why I was thinking about the lettuce leaf when I was three hours from a funeral for my mother, and guessed that the grave was already dug, and was filling with water with the onset of rain, and the roses were already picked and were sitting in vases so that we could throw them on top of the shiny oak box that was polished so I could see my reflection and the reflection of the rose, and I hoped that I wouldn’t look down and grin and see the reflection of a lettuce leaf in my own teeth, and guessed that wouldn’t happen since I wouldn’t be grinning and I hadn’t eaten lettuce today, or even yesterday.
He moved along down the counter to help other customers. I thanked my god damn lucky stars that I was only a stranger around these parts, passing though, on to new sights after this breakfast that tastes like deep fried oil that had smoldered for a long while in a pot with a chicken leg and a ham bone and a few worn out pieces of celery in an excuse for god only knows what.
I shoveled the remnants of food around on my plate, watching the trail of grease catching the glint of florescent lights above and looking like a trail that a slug had left behind, so green and translucent and gooey and solidifying right before my eyes. I swallowed. My stomach turned.
The grinning man reappeared out of nowhere to refill my coffee. No, no thanks, I said and placed my hand over my cup. The brown water was not coffee and couldn’t even call itself coffee and I wondered how often the grinds were even changed for newly brewed pots and wondered whether I was really so far from anywhere that I wouldn’t be able to find a cup of coffee that even resembled coffee and wondered whether the people around here thought this brown slush water was actually. As soon as I moved my hand away from my coffee cup, the grinning man pounced on it and refilled it anyhow. At least it was free refills, after wasting a dollar and a quarter for brown water that I could have dished out of the sewer.
The lettuce remnant had relocated and was now wedged in his top teeth and had disintegrated a bit. He must have swallowed the other little bit, and I wondered why I was thinking about the lettuce leaf when I was three hours from a funeral for my mother, and guessed that the grave was already dug, and was filling with water with the onset of rain, and the roses were already picked and were sitting in vases so that we could throw them on top of the shiny oak box that was polished so I could see my reflection and the reflection of the rose, and I hoped that I wouldn’t look down and grin and see the reflection of a lettuce leaf in my own teeth, and guessed that wouldn’t happen since I wouldn’t be grinning and I hadn’t eaten lettuce today, or even yesterday.
One Page 53
The clouds whispered in my ears. They called to me silently, a voice so quiet but not so still, rather ever-changing. They told me to go, run away, feel the wind whistling in my ears. They told me to leave it all behind. The cloud in the shape of a train told me to charge forth.
The cloud in the shape of an elm tree told me to bend and keep on bending, I would never break.
The cloud in the shape of a river bend told me to flow, and I would never cease.
I stood in the field and let the clouds whisper into my ears, taking in the words. They tickled the hairs at the base of my neck and stroked the folds of flesh. I closed my eyes and we all laughed together, a great belly laugh from deep below. They roared with me, sending laughter into the heavens. The clouds spread their arms, and I spread my arms and we shook the earth together.
Then I lay down, exhausted from the laughter, and let the ants crawl over my arms and up around my ankles. I could feel them with my eyes closed like a tickle that ran this way and that in so many arcs and circles that I lost track of which ones were where.
The long grasses that blew around me in the breeze tickled my forehead and I wondered whether there were ants on my forehead too, or if it was just the grass. The clouds looked down on me and watched, they too could see the ants running around in circles and then settling as if they too were exhausted from the laughter. Together, the clouds and the ants and the blowing grasses and I rested. As I fell asleep the clouds whispered words into my ears that formed into dreams. They picked me up and carried me with them on their backs, lifting me towards the stars. The great blackness of sky tumbled into my body, filling me with all the stars and moons of the universe, making my body feel so expansive and alive, a million beating hearts and a million blinking stars reverberating inside of me.
After many long minutes, the clouds brought me back down to the ground, back to the field with the blowing grasses and the sleeping ants. In my ears, the clouds whispered goodbye and floated away to look after other fields and other ants and other blowing grasses.
I lay in the field, my eyes now open, watching the stars dance and feeling them inside of me blinking in and out with the beating of my heart. I reached out and took hold of the grasses that bumped against my forehead. I waved the ends of the grasses towards the stars, towards the rising moon, saying hello, calling out a welcome to the night. The air grew cooler and I stood up.
I opened my mouth and let all of the stars and moons pour out with a silent roar and join their sisters and brothers and cousins in the sky.
The cloud in the shape of an elm tree told me to bend and keep on bending, I would never break.
The cloud in the shape of a river bend told me to flow, and I would never cease.
I stood in the field and let the clouds whisper into my ears, taking in the words. They tickled the hairs at the base of my neck and stroked the folds of flesh. I closed my eyes and we all laughed together, a great belly laugh from deep below. They roared with me, sending laughter into the heavens. The clouds spread their arms, and I spread my arms and we shook the earth together.
Then I lay down, exhausted from the laughter, and let the ants crawl over my arms and up around my ankles. I could feel them with my eyes closed like a tickle that ran this way and that in so many arcs and circles that I lost track of which ones were where.
The long grasses that blew around me in the breeze tickled my forehead and I wondered whether there were ants on my forehead too, or if it was just the grass. The clouds looked down on me and watched, they too could see the ants running around in circles and then settling as if they too were exhausted from the laughter. Together, the clouds and the ants and the blowing grasses and I rested. As I fell asleep the clouds whispered words into my ears that formed into dreams. They picked me up and carried me with them on their backs, lifting me towards the stars. The great blackness of sky tumbled into my body, filling me with all the stars and moons of the universe, making my body feel so expansive and alive, a million beating hearts and a million blinking stars reverberating inside of me.
After many long minutes, the clouds brought me back down to the ground, back to the field with the blowing grasses and the sleeping ants. In my ears, the clouds whispered goodbye and floated away to look after other fields and other ants and other blowing grasses.
I lay in the field, my eyes now open, watching the stars dance and feeling them inside of me blinking in and out with the beating of my heart. I reached out and took hold of the grasses that bumped against my forehead. I waved the ends of the grasses towards the stars, towards the rising moon, saying hello, calling out a welcome to the night. The air grew cooler and I stood up.
I opened my mouth and let all of the stars and moons pour out with a silent roar and join their sisters and brothers and cousins in the sky.
One Page 52
Shamed into the salt flats that radiated gold and blue like a thorn in my side so sharp. Sun fades and my arms are cold. Belly sticking out and falls into the sea carried away by the waves on whales backs and fishy brine. Sea eagles circle overhead cawing to the fish below as a warning so useless. Rocks protrude from the waves angled pointy to the sky providing perches for the gulls and sea lions that don’t get along and bark at each other mouths wide open catching the salt air on their tongues and deep into their throats. Pastures of blue waves turning gray and green with white caps blowing like wheat dancing in the wind. Spry kites. Rainbows against the sky so gray now with the coming storm. Clouds reaching high into heaven standing so tall and proud bringing darkness like a blanket in behind them. Blanket ripples. Sends me into shadow. Goosebumps leaping. Hairs on end bristling. You walk up behind me and your faint shadow merges with mine. Arms around. Skin settles and smoothes. Our shadow disappears with the darkening sky. We back away from the waves that tickle our toes. Waves crying out in urgency. Seals and gulls disappear, falling into the sea, leaping into the sky and away like specks then gone. We stand like a rock into the wind impenetrable. Skin like bark reflecting the weather. Clouds cover the blue and sea turns to gray almost black with white foaming in anger. Boiling. We turn to leave arms still wrapped around each other, our chests sheltered from the wind. Our shoulders taking it all in, hair flapping. We fall in the sand that blows and stings our ankles. With a glance we run through dried seaweed and hollow crab shells empty and abandoned. I don’t know what a palindrome is. But the saints are knocking around in my skull wanting in. And there is a crow slowly eating my eyes out. If I grew horns I would wear a crown so that you would never know. And it would be decorated with rubies and sapphires and sharp as a knife in case I needed protection. The moon reflects off the gold. It is so shiny that if I held the crown in my hands I could see whether there was anything in my teeth, even in the moonlight. But I won’t take it off my head. Otherwise you might see my horns. And run away. Scared. Because the wind is picking up and the sea is rolling and we haven’t reached the house yet but I see it up ahead coming closer. The rain has started and it has soaked through my shirt. My goosebumps are back. Ten more steps and we grab hands to hold each other down and we reach the screen door that bangs several times as we race through. Thunder is rumbling now with my tummy grumbling and I towel off, and towel you off, and we shiver together.
One Page 51
Someone told me, deadpan, while looking at my face coldly that we are living on borrowed time. I asked if I could check out more time with my library card. He glowered at me and turned away. Smirking at his back I fingered my library card in my pocket and it felt hot from sitting in the folds of my shorts while I sat in the sun. The man’s back shrunk as he walked down the path, shoulders slumped, shoes scuffing. He had not borrowed the right kind of time. He had borrowed This World is Too Burdensome time. I wondered if there might be an overdue fine if I returned the borrowed time late. The overdue notice would read: Borrowed Time, overdue, fine up to 1.00 a day. Could I put a hold on time? And not just any time, but a certain time, a happy time. I didn’t want to borrow sorrowful time, or hungry time. I wanted to borrow peaceful time, restful time. Something to ease me.
I wondered whether it would wear out, the time I borrowed, after too many uses. Then the old time would be discarded into a dumpster out back in the alleyway where scavengers might try to eke out just a little more use before the time was dead.
I gulped from my iced tea and scowled at the clouds that were moving closer and sending me into shade. The man was only a dot now, but I could still see the garish orange plaid of his shirt and faintly hear the scuff scuff of his shoes against the gravel. He was smoking now and a puff of smoke blew over his head with a big sigh, so resigned that I had not bought his cynical sketch. With one last huff, he disappeared around the corner. I wondered who he borrowed his time from, and wanted to suggest that he change his sources.
Left alone in the courtyard, I considered his idea more seriously. If we were all living on borrowed time, then who was lending it out? God? Maybe when we die we owe it all back and we get set up on a payment plan of a certain amount a month. Those who lived until their faces were lined with wrinkles and their hair was falling out would be paying it all back for so long, along with their loan for wings and a halo and the long white gown. How depressing to die and know that you are in debt. I wondered whether God charged interest too. My head sunk down into the crook of my arm and the sweat on my face stuck to my arm and when I moved my head it went splunk splush as the sweat squirmed between my skin, sticky and aromatic. My lunch was not digesting well and my eyes were clouding over. I didn’t want to owe any more than I already did. I hated owing people for things. I like to be squared away, accounts settled. The sooner it was over the less I would owe. I thought seriously about that.
I wondered whether it would wear out, the time I borrowed, after too many uses. Then the old time would be discarded into a dumpster out back in the alleyway where scavengers might try to eke out just a little more use before the time was dead.
I gulped from my iced tea and scowled at the clouds that were moving closer and sending me into shade. The man was only a dot now, but I could still see the garish orange plaid of his shirt and faintly hear the scuff scuff of his shoes against the gravel. He was smoking now and a puff of smoke blew over his head with a big sigh, so resigned that I had not bought his cynical sketch. With one last huff, he disappeared around the corner. I wondered who he borrowed his time from, and wanted to suggest that he change his sources.
Left alone in the courtyard, I considered his idea more seriously. If we were all living on borrowed time, then who was lending it out? God? Maybe when we die we owe it all back and we get set up on a payment plan of a certain amount a month. Those who lived until their faces were lined with wrinkles and their hair was falling out would be paying it all back for so long, along with their loan for wings and a halo and the long white gown. How depressing to die and know that you are in debt. I wondered whether God charged interest too. My head sunk down into the crook of my arm and the sweat on my face stuck to my arm and when I moved my head it went splunk splush as the sweat squirmed between my skin, sticky and aromatic. My lunch was not digesting well and my eyes were clouding over. I didn’t want to owe any more than I already did. I hated owing people for things. I like to be squared away, accounts settled. The sooner it was over the less I would owe. I thought seriously about that.
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I had my head stretched back to the point where I thought it would fall off of my neck and I was staring at the moon that was just a sliver of light between the branches of the oak tree that was to be taken down the next day. I had lived with that tree all of my life until the blight hit last year. I had swung from its branches, I had climbed high enough that my parents yelled for me to come down. I had watched squirrels and blue jays explore. I had built a platform in the sixth grade in a poor attempt for a clubhouse that Patty and I had clumped around on until the board split in two and sent us falling to the ground surprisingly unharmed. Now, twenty years later, my parents were selling the house and I thought maybe they were selling it because the oak tree had died. I hugged the tree now, its dead bark rough against my cheek. The smell was different now. It was a lifeless smell. I couldn’t say exactly how it was different, but it smelled musty as if it had been sitting in an attic for far too long. I wondered how far down the roots reached into the earth and whether once the tree was cut down and the stump removed whether there would be pieces of the roots left to disintegrate and disappear into the soil. Maybe one shoot would rebirth a small trunk that would breach the surface and grown into another oak tree, a daughter oak tree. The descendent would give shade to the new occupants of the house and it would offer branches as homes to new birds. Someday maybe someone would stand just here, looking back, neck craning, for a look at the moon. It would be the same moon as I was seeing now, and the light would peak around the branches, except maybe then there would be leaves on the branches and a little less moonlight would be able to shine through.
I lifted my head back upright and stroked the dead bark of the oak tree. It had long been a friend. I wasn’t sure what would happen to the wood. Can dead trees be made into paper, or cardboard boxes or books, or business cards and wrapping paper. Would this tree end up around a present being sent off to a cousin in Japan? Or would it carry the words of a lover to a partner far away? Maybe it would hold a spray of perfume and lopsidedly drawn hearts surrounded by loopy handwriting. Maybe the wood would be composted and return to the earth slowly, giving food for insects and shelter for earthworms. I said goodbye to the oak tree. I wished it well through its transition to a new place in whatever use or non-use it might find. I thanked it for the joy it had given me. I was certain it would see moonlight still, wherever it would be next.
I lifted my head back upright and stroked the dead bark of the oak tree. It had long been a friend. I wasn’t sure what would happen to the wood. Can dead trees be made into paper, or cardboard boxes or books, or business cards and wrapping paper. Would this tree end up around a present being sent off to a cousin in Japan? Or would it carry the words of a lover to a partner far away? Maybe it would hold a spray of perfume and lopsidedly drawn hearts surrounded by loopy handwriting. Maybe the wood would be composted and return to the earth slowly, giving food for insects and shelter for earthworms. I said goodbye to the oak tree. I wished it well through its transition to a new place in whatever use or non-use it might find. I thanked it for the joy it had given me. I was certain it would see moonlight still, wherever it would be next.
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We can stop on the way home, she told me, but I knew she wouldn’t want to stop. She hated stopping once we got going. She didn’t like pauses in the action, or diversions from the path, or moments that weren’t scheduled into the plan. She liked plans. I just nodded and pretended for a moment that maybe we would stop, and I could get some water and go to the bathroom and stretch my legs for a minute before the doors were closed again and we were rolling onwards. I didn’t remember what my body felt like when it wasn’t moving and wasn’t held by the car seat. I didn’t remember what it felt like for my eyes to look at something still, something unmoving, something at rest. My right hand was molded to the armrest and my left hand clung to my leg just above the knee where my shorts stopped and the skin was sticky from sitting all day long in the sun that never seemed to rise or set, it just hung tightly to the middle of the sky where it would be sure to hit me without ceasing. I wasn’t usually allowed to drive. But I was expected to keep the soundtrack going and supply water and food when asked. Technically I wasn’t allowed to drive since I had never gotten my license, so it was fair that I was never asked to take the wheel. But I still sort of resented the fact that I had one seat to sit in for three thousand miles and I couldn’t even ask for a stop unless it was at a scheduled mealtime.
I don’t mean to make it sound like it was all bad though. We laughed a lot, the two of us; we shared stories and ideas. We sang along with Abbey Road and Graceland and an occasional chance U2 song on the radio. And the long stretches of road ahead of us started to feel comforting and familiar, even as the landscaped changed and I saw deserts and mountains I had never seen before. It all felt like home, like the whole country was my home. Passing through towns I saw people walking along sidewalks, so at home. Passing by truckers with cigarettes hanging from hands held out the window, they seemed so at home in their cabins pulling loads behind them. The sky was over all of our heads, holding us in close to home, a blanket so blue across our laps. I was a stranger to stillness, to familiar beds, to home cooked meals. I missed these things sometimes, but at the same time I couldn’t imagine what I would be like to not have a different view out of my window every day. It was a transitioning world out there, and I was just flying on by right through it, something static in a fading countryside. The seat of my shorts would wear thin but they would never be washed in the same washer twice. That was comforting to me. At least in those few weeks. Until it would stop on the other side.
I don’t mean to make it sound like it was all bad though. We laughed a lot, the two of us; we shared stories and ideas. We sang along with Abbey Road and Graceland and an occasional chance U2 song on the radio. And the long stretches of road ahead of us started to feel comforting and familiar, even as the landscaped changed and I saw deserts and mountains I had never seen before. It all felt like home, like the whole country was my home. Passing through towns I saw people walking along sidewalks, so at home. Passing by truckers with cigarettes hanging from hands held out the window, they seemed so at home in their cabins pulling loads behind them. The sky was over all of our heads, holding us in close to home, a blanket so blue across our laps. I was a stranger to stillness, to familiar beds, to home cooked meals. I missed these things sometimes, but at the same time I couldn’t imagine what I would be like to not have a different view out of my window every day. It was a transitioning world out there, and I was just flying on by right through it, something static in a fading countryside. The seat of my shorts would wear thin but they would never be washed in the same washer twice. That was comforting to me. At least in those few weeks. Until it would stop on the other side.
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