The grocer had a Bell jar of lollipops by the cash register. They had been there for as long as anyone could remember, collecting dust; when the sun fell on them they shone with sticky promise in cloudy pink, lemon yellow, bottle green and murky blue so that the gazes of the children in line were drawn toward the imminent crackle of cellophane wrappers. This pact was nearly always fulfilled. The only time Esme could remember not receiving a lollipop, carried by the huge, kindly hand of Mr. Ripoll, from the jar was the day of the Colonel’s funeral; it had been a dark day, she remembered, although she had been no older than six at the time, and even the tears on the faces of the townspeople at the wake seemed tired and dry.
The jar watched her now as she stood an aisle away in the shelves of cheap plastic toys. Their lurid colors held the gazes of the passing children for the moment before they reached the jar of lollipops, a moment that was never sustained. They had learned already that the lollipop was a constant and that the toys never came down off the shelves.
Esme could feel a trickle of sweat down her back and convinced herself it was the heat of the day, although from the light that came through the glass storefront she could tell there were storm clouds gathering—it would not be hot much longer. She looked casually to her right, away from the register, down the rows of shiny kitchen appliances, blenders and mixers stacked on top of each other, so orderly you could tell they were touched by nothing except for dust and the ancient rag the hand of Mr. Ripoll wielded every week. Her hand moved casually towards the shelf, as though the thought of doing it were enough to propel such an action; when she touched the tiny pink thing, she couldn’t feel it. Subtly she pressed down hard enough that the ridges on the top of the thing dug into the tips of her fingers. Her hand enveloped its object, and it disappeared magically into her fist.
Her hand, curled around the toy as naturally as if it had been the hand of her mother, dropped to her side; Esme walked down the aisle as if to admire something that caught her attention there, her hand straining against itself in its haste to hide its contents. Her face burned, she thought, so brightly nobody could fail to notice her guilt. When finally she turned the corner and allowed herself to stow the thing in the pocket of her shorts it was as if her guilt disappeared as surely as the sight of her infidelity. Out of sight, out of mind.
Esme glided down the corridors of the long store on a cloud, sailing past tins of biscuits and round cardboard containers of Quaker Oats until she reached the counter. Slowly, slowly, she came to a stop in front of Mr. Ripoll.
“Not buying anything today, Esme?”
“Not buying anything, Mr. Ripoll.”
“Well, have a lollipop anyway. You have a good day.”
Esme took a pink one, as she did every time: “You too, Mr. Ripoll,” and stuffed the wrapping into her pocket, on top of the little pink toy. Sticking the lollipop in her mouth—a sudden saccharine assault on her taste buds—she walked out of the grocery store into the rain.
30 April 2008
23 April 2008
James Does the Homework
Fairy’s Drink—an accursed little town that had the sense of decency to hide itself and its foolish, outlandish name in the hills of Northern Idaho—was my new hometown, so far away from New Jersey, where I’d actually grown up. The name actually seemed kind of appropriate; the number of individuals in the town who were sober was infinitesimal, and, probably in direct relation to this fact, so was school attendance; my first-ever class at Fairy’s Drink High School was study hall, and aside from myself the only other occupants of the room were three ratty kids who laughed quietly in the corner. I had trouble believing this could be a school and restrained myself from checking that the people at the front office were actual employees, that they wouldn’t suddenly burst out laughing at the joke they’d pulled on me, only with great difficulty.
By the end of the day it seemed no less criminal, although it was no longer surprising, that only seven students beside myself were in English class. However, there was a proper teacher in this class by the name of Ms Smith. Our only assignment was to read the first chapter of To Kill A Mockingbird, which she handed out to us, I thought, wearily.
I had no other homework. Ms Smith, it would appear, was new to the district as I was and had not yet given up hope in her students. The rest of the teachers were quite as apathetic as the teenagers they taught, and the distinct possibility that the condition was catching paralyzed me from the moment I noticed the phenomenon. The bus ground to a tired stop, kicking up amber clouds of April dust in front of my new house. The first thing I did, once inside, was fall disconsolately onto my bare futon in my bare room. Apparently, although my parting with New Jersey had been tearful, I had not dreaded the move as much as it deserved.
The second thing I did was take out my shiny, unread book, bound in lavender; the new house had not been hooked up to the internet and the last thing I wanted to do was remind myself of where I wasn’t by unpacking; I liked the two boxes that crouched in the center of the room because they seemed to promise me that the move was temporary, that the next day I’d be back where I belonged, Fairy’s Drink an abortive bend in the road.
The assignment, as I have noted, was to read simply the first chapter; I can’t explain why I kept reading besides the fact that I didn’t notice when it ended. I read, as steadily as I ever have, as the sky darkened and the moon came out. I was, in fact, captivated, and I continued to read until the lack of pages under my right hand arrested me. The blank green numbers on my clock astounded me; it was almost midnight. I’d never have believed I could spend nearly nine hours reading if I hadn’t seen it for myself. I rolled over and fell asleep where I lay.
The next day was another lesson in futility, until English. Ms Smith, looking as though she’d been taking the same lesson I had, asked for a show of hands by those who’d read the previous night’s assignment.
The class showed no upward movement; a boy and a girl in the back row giggled as they tried to fit into one of the dinky chairs; the rest of the class was nearly comatose, slumped at desks, chewing gum or other things, counting the spots on the ceiling tiles; and Ms Smith sighed. The despair in her face and body was too much for me to take; my hand rose into the air. I had no idea why it hadn’t been there in the first place.
To look at Ms Smith’s face you’d thought the sun had just come out, like some kid in the movies had just opened the door of an abandoned shed, revealing contents blanketed in dust and begging to be discovered.
“Well, class,” she breathed to a room empty, practically, of everyone but ourselves, “James has done the homework.”
By the end of the day it seemed no less criminal, although it was no longer surprising, that only seven students beside myself were in English class. However, there was a proper teacher in this class by the name of Ms Smith. Our only assignment was to read the first chapter of To Kill A Mockingbird, which she handed out to us, I thought, wearily.
I had no other homework. Ms Smith, it would appear, was new to the district as I was and had not yet given up hope in her students. The rest of the teachers were quite as apathetic as the teenagers they taught, and the distinct possibility that the condition was catching paralyzed me from the moment I noticed the phenomenon. The bus ground to a tired stop, kicking up amber clouds of April dust in front of my new house. The first thing I did, once inside, was fall disconsolately onto my bare futon in my bare room. Apparently, although my parting with New Jersey had been tearful, I had not dreaded the move as much as it deserved.
The second thing I did was take out my shiny, unread book, bound in lavender; the new house had not been hooked up to the internet and the last thing I wanted to do was remind myself of where I wasn’t by unpacking; I liked the two boxes that crouched in the center of the room because they seemed to promise me that the move was temporary, that the next day I’d be back where I belonged, Fairy’s Drink an abortive bend in the road.
The assignment, as I have noted, was to read simply the first chapter; I can’t explain why I kept reading besides the fact that I didn’t notice when it ended. I read, as steadily as I ever have, as the sky darkened and the moon came out. I was, in fact, captivated, and I continued to read until the lack of pages under my right hand arrested me. The blank green numbers on my clock astounded me; it was almost midnight. I’d never have believed I could spend nearly nine hours reading if I hadn’t seen it for myself. I rolled over and fell asleep where I lay.
The next day was another lesson in futility, until English. Ms Smith, looking as though she’d been taking the same lesson I had, asked for a show of hands by those who’d read the previous night’s assignment.
The class showed no upward movement; a boy and a girl in the back row giggled as they tried to fit into one of the dinky chairs; the rest of the class was nearly comatose, slumped at desks, chewing gum or other things, counting the spots on the ceiling tiles; and Ms Smith sighed. The despair in her face and body was too much for me to take; my hand rose into the air. I had no idea why it hadn’t been there in the first place.
To look at Ms Smith’s face you’d thought the sun had just come out, like some kid in the movies had just opened the door of an abandoned shed, revealing contents blanketed in dust and begging to be discovered.
“Well, class,” she breathed to a room empty, practically, of everyone but ourselves, “James has done the homework.”
22 April 2008
Turn-About
Adeline Cross was in a spot but her mind didn’t seem to have realized yet; in the course of an evening she’d abandoned Stephen, her husband, over some disagreement about politics, packed up a motley assortment of twenty-three books (crammed by order of preference into whatever space the nearest grocery bag her hand landed on, in the corner of the kitchen by the bookshelf, availed; its previous occupant had been carried home some three hours previously, a fillet of salmon destined for Stephen’s dinner), and promptly run out of gas at the point of no return, twenty miles from home. She steered the shabby green Volvo into the nearest gas station on the power of inertia and managed to maneuver it, sweat beading the back of her neck, close enough to the pump; she prayed that arbitrarily the car had been positioned on the right side, because she had certainly had no power over the thing; more certainly, she was sure she’d never be able to reposition it if it turned out to be out of reach.
Outside, under the fluorescent noon, she prepared herself to think about the conflict. Strangely enough, though, her mind could not settle on that particular subject but floated away perversely to the most random things; it caught upon the bureau that stood in the front room of her parents’ house.
It was never “her mother’s house”, and propriety prevented it being Adeline’s father’s house, but the truth was that the latter had inhabited it so solidly, whereas his wife was prone to miss meals if not prompted—head in the clouds, space traveler.
The bureau, though, was old and scarred—the sort of thing you’d never think of. Over the years it had shifted into the house until it became as much a feature as the shingles, and although Adeline supposed they must have acquired it somewhere—it was never in the earliest pictures of the house, for instance—she couldn’t for the life of her remember where. It had done years of faithful service, though, the wood blunting at the edges so as to almost be closer to sphere-hood than rectangularity, and innumerable, unnamable scratches had sunk into its surface as completely as the layers of varnish that once had coated it; it was the color of melted chocolate, although as Adeline remembered it the wood itself was rarely seen, being hidden, for the most part, under a plethora of old tests, homework and report cards, as well as the fruit bowl.
It bothered her, the unknown origins of this bureau, as though it were an unnamed, un-thanked member of the family, a cousin maybe, who stood, socially awkward, by the side of the room. Adeline had, as of yet, no destination, and she thought of returning to her parents’ house—though it was two states away, the drive of many hours; a ludicrous proposition for a respectable woman who had taken only the most rudimentary preparations for a journey of any sort; she squinted furtively through the windows of her own car at the solitary bag of books. If she had any reason in her she’d turn back now, turn back and reconcile with Stephen; she’d be home by ten, barely a disturbance in the pond of local life—barely a fish surfacing to glance at a bounding shore.
The gasoline glugged steadily, with an unrushed sense of urgency, into the tank of the car. Adeline looked at the surrounding parking lot, rough cement stained by years of clear flammables in looks and smell. There was only one other car parked in the pool of superficial light the station cast, a car similar in looks to hers, battered, cast-aside. A young woman leaned against the open drivers’ window talking to another young woman inside, possibly a sister; reveling, it seemed, in the summer night air, through their wanton style of shorts and t-shirts. They had a sense of discovery about them; she almost envied the ties that bound them so closely to their parents, their justification for turning tail after facing the world, as they surely were, now, for the first time. Adeline had no such luxury after three years of marriage; Adeline gazed at them, probably for too long, because after a moment the standing one straightened to return her look. Adeline looked away, ashamed to be caught spying so obviously.
The pump stopped abruptly, jerking in her hand, a final gulp. She turned to the screen and paid for the gas. Then she pulled out of the gas station and turned home to Stephen.
Outside, under the fluorescent noon, she prepared herself to think about the conflict. Strangely enough, though, her mind could not settle on that particular subject but floated away perversely to the most random things; it caught upon the bureau that stood in the front room of her parents’ house.
It was never “her mother’s house”, and propriety prevented it being Adeline’s father’s house, but the truth was that the latter had inhabited it so solidly, whereas his wife was prone to miss meals if not prompted—head in the clouds, space traveler.
The bureau, though, was old and scarred—the sort of thing you’d never think of. Over the years it had shifted into the house until it became as much a feature as the shingles, and although Adeline supposed they must have acquired it somewhere—it was never in the earliest pictures of the house, for instance—she couldn’t for the life of her remember where. It had done years of faithful service, though, the wood blunting at the edges so as to almost be closer to sphere-hood than rectangularity, and innumerable, unnamable scratches had sunk into its surface as completely as the layers of varnish that once had coated it; it was the color of melted chocolate, although as Adeline remembered it the wood itself was rarely seen, being hidden, for the most part, under a plethora of old tests, homework and report cards, as well as the fruit bowl.
It bothered her, the unknown origins of this bureau, as though it were an unnamed, un-thanked member of the family, a cousin maybe, who stood, socially awkward, by the side of the room. Adeline had, as of yet, no destination, and she thought of returning to her parents’ house—though it was two states away, the drive of many hours; a ludicrous proposition for a respectable woman who had taken only the most rudimentary preparations for a journey of any sort; she squinted furtively through the windows of her own car at the solitary bag of books. If she had any reason in her she’d turn back now, turn back and reconcile with Stephen; she’d be home by ten, barely a disturbance in the pond of local life—barely a fish surfacing to glance at a bounding shore.
The gasoline glugged steadily, with an unrushed sense of urgency, into the tank of the car. Adeline looked at the surrounding parking lot, rough cement stained by years of clear flammables in looks and smell. There was only one other car parked in the pool of superficial light the station cast, a car similar in looks to hers, battered, cast-aside. A young woman leaned against the open drivers’ window talking to another young woman inside, possibly a sister; reveling, it seemed, in the summer night air, through their wanton style of shorts and t-shirts. They had a sense of discovery about them; she almost envied the ties that bound them so closely to their parents, their justification for turning tail after facing the world, as they surely were, now, for the first time. Adeline had no such luxury after three years of marriage; Adeline gazed at them, probably for too long, because after a moment the standing one straightened to return her look. Adeline looked away, ashamed to be caught spying so obviously.
The pump stopped abruptly, jerking in her hand, a final gulp. She turned to the screen and paid for the gas. Then she pulled out of the gas station and turned home to Stephen.
21 April 2008
Stuffed Animals- The First Big Important Man I See
The luscious parks of Herbredshire were paid for by the townspeople, who were extravagant in their beautification and stingy in their taxes, and peopled by their children and legions of well-paid nannies. Beneath one of the largest and shadiest trees were clustered a few people; two nannies and a child, perhaps aged six and hand in paw with a stuffed yellow bunny. The age of its occupant was hinted at by the loose folds of the skin, as it were, of the bunny, made of thin cotton with a faded floral print. The child, though about as old as its toy, was bearing its age much better than its companion; it was a young boy, eyes large from watching the activities of his superiors and contemporaries, mainly his nanny, who was at this moment engaged in a chat with another of her occupation, one eye on her charge.
“…and how’s the new little boy?”
“Oh, he’s a strange little kid—you see him just over there.”
“What’s strange about him?”
“Well, where are your kids?”
“Playing, of course; I see.”
The boy’s nanny motioned him closer, saying, out of the corner of her mouth, “And that doll of his he carries around…! Hardly normal…” Her friend laughed softly, watching the boy, who was slowly approaching the two women.
“Hey, honey, what’s your name?”
The boy was silent. (“Y’see?”)
The nanny tried again.
“What a nice doll!”
And again.
“What’s his name, then?”
“Hasn’t got one.”
The nanny was taken aback. “What’s that, luv?”
The little boy’s face remained immobile. “Hasn’t got one, it’s not mine, it’s hers.” A small hand raised to point at its owner’s nanny. “She wants me to look cute.” He took a deep breath: “And she wants for me to give it to the first big important man I see,” he continued, “’cause it’s got poison in its other paw and when the big man takes it he’ll die right there!
“She said she wanted to get into the newspapers because of some other man who didn’t know how to find her; and he’d be sure to if her little brat poisoned a big important man in the middle of the park. This wasn’t her first choice, she really wanted to rent a space in the Personals but she didn’t have the money so she dipped the paw of the bunny in the arsenic when we went to visit Doctor Leonard and gave it to me just this morning. If it doesn’t work she doesn’t know what she’ll do, but she’ll probably be reduced to shooting someone with an umbrella on a rainy day, and we’re in the middle of a drought.”
After this speech the little boy retreated, watching the people circulating in the park peacefully.
The second nanny looked, aghast, at the boy’s nanny, and inquired, in undertones, of the reality of this story. Bewildered, the boy’s nanny denied all charges and called the boy back with a trembling voice; soon he was once again in front of the two women.
“Sorry, sweetie? Who gave you that bunny there?”
“I told you. She did. And she wants me to give it to the first big important man I see, because she wants to get in the newspapers because she wants some man to notice her .”
“Really?”
The boy turned to leave again. “No. His name is Epaminondas.”
“…and how’s the new little boy?”
“Oh, he’s a strange little kid—you see him just over there.”
“What’s strange about him?”
“Well, where are your kids?”
“Playing, of course; I see.”
The boy’s nanny motioned him closer, saying, out of the corner of her mouth, “And that doll of his he carries around…! Hardly normal…” Her friend laughed softly, watching the boy, who was slowly approaching the two women.
“Hey, honey, what’s your name?”
The boy was silent. (“Y’see?”)
The nanny tried again.
“What a nice doll!”
And again.
“What’s his name, then?”
“Hasn’t got one.”
The nanny was taken aback. “What’s that, luv?”
The little boy’s face remained immobile. “Hasn’t got one, it’s not mine, it’s hers.” A small hand raised to point at its owner’s nanny. “She wants me to look cute.” He took a deep breath: “And she wants for me to give it to the first big important man I see,” he continued, “’cause it’s got poison in its other paw and when the big man takes it he’ll die right there!
“She said she wanted to get into the newspapers because of some other man who didn’t know how to find her; and he’d be sure to if her little brat poisoned a big important man in the middle of the park. This wasn’t her first choice, she really wanted to rent a space in the Personals but she didn’t have the money so she dipped the paw of the bunny in the arsenic when we went to visit Doctor Leonard and gave it to me just this morning. If it doesn’t work she doesn’t know what she’ll do, but she’ll probably be reduced to shooting someone with an umbrella on a rainy day, and we’re in the middle of a drought.”
After this speech the little boy retreated, watching the people circulating in the park peacefully.
The second nanny looked, aghast, at the boy’s nanny, and inquired, in undertones, of the reality of this story. Bewildered, the boy’s nanny denied all charges and called the boy back with a trembling voice; soon he was once again in front of the two women.
“Sorry, sweetie? Who gave you that bunny there?”
“I told you. She did. And she wants me to give it to the first big important man I see, because she wants to get in the newspapers because she wants some man to notice her .”
“Really?”
The boy turned to leave again. “No. His name is Epaminondas.”
20 April 2008
Rain: The Colonel
The air was as quiet as any air has ever been precluding a storm of phenomenal proportions; the Colonel sat at the weathered iron gate the edged the boulevard, in an old metal folding chair propped on two legs at such a sharp angle it was a wonder to onlookers that he didn’t topple over; but the Colonel was an experienced hand, although he appeared at all times to be half asleep. Here comes the lovely young Sarasina to talk to him about his overdue grocery payments; he hardly looks up, though it would be the privilege of any young man in the town to simply look in the direction of the proprietor of the grocery store.
“Colonel, I want to talk to you.”
“Ah so?”
“Yes, it’s about this month’s payment, and last month’s too.”
“Ah so?”
“Colonel, you have never paid.”
“Ah so? Blame my nephew,” the nephew in question, being the only surviving member of the Colonel’s family, was in theory in charge of all the old man’s monetary affairs; the rest of the family had been killed by various blood feuds, plagues, and wars in the years since the Colonel had retired from the military at the age of 76.
“Colonel, I cannot continue to offer you credit.”
“Ah so?”
“Colonel, you owe me thirty-seven dollars and nineteen cents.”
This figure the Colonel dismissed with a desultory wave of his hand. “There’s money inside the house. Run along and get it.”
Sarasin protested that she would never dream of removing the offending money, but the Colonel insisted, never once removing his hat, nor moving any part of his anatomy more than an inch in any direction; never once a greeting—no hello ma’am, no how’s business, apart from my debts, no lovely weather we’re having; but that was the way of the Colonel. The townspeople would have whispered to each other, as they did habitually, as they passed. But there was no-one in the streets. They had all gone home to escape the impending rain.
“Colonel, I want to talk to you.”
“Ah so?”
“Yes, it’s about this month’s payment, and last month’s too.”
“Ah so?”
“Colonel, you have never paid.”
“Ah so? Blame my nephew,” the nephew in question, being the only surviving member of the Colonel’s family, was in theory in charge of all the old man’s monetary affairs; the rest of the family had been killed by various blood feuds, plagues, and wars in the years since the Colonel had retired from the military at the age of 76.
“Colonel, I cannot continue to offer you credit.”
“Ah so?”
“Colonel, you owe me thirty-seven dollars and nineteen cents.”
This figure the Colonel dismissed with a desultory wave of his hand. “There’s money inside the house. Run along and get it.”
Sarasin protested that she would never dream of removing the offending money, but the Colonel insisted, never once removing his hat, nor moving any part of his anatomy more than an inch in any direction; never once a greeting—no hello ma’am, no how’s business, apart from my debts, no lovely weather we’re having; but that was the way of the Colonel. The townspeople would have whispered to each other, as they did habitually, as they passed. But there was no-one in the streets. They had all gone home to escape the impending rain.
14 April 2008
Portrait of the Author as a Young Girl
I thought now was the best time, my invisible and most probably non-existant reader base, to introduce myself, after three months of random literary and critical posts. My name is Eleanor. I am a 15 year old from New Hampshire--and yes, since my half-birthday was April 2nd, I can legally drive.
At the moment, as my age may suggest, I am a freshman at my local high school--believe me, I'm not that thrilled about it, but I was waitlisted at St. Mark's and Commonwealth, so I suppose I have to put that behind me (wait...wouldn't even mentioning that be alluding to it?) and I really am not sure what I want to do when I graduate. That is, when I graduate from college; I want to go to Oberlin college, where my dad went. Philosophy holds great attraction, as does psychology or writing; possibly music; I can see myself in law or science or something but that's not likely to happen, since whatever I end up doing will need a great degree of dedication.
I really do like music, which is necessary because my father is a choir director (my mother is a math teacher, which doesn't interest me quite as much. I'm no good with arithmetic but I like algebra.); you can check out the Slacker Radio box at the bottom of the page. My favorite band lately is probably Coldplay and my favorite individual artist is Sinead O'Connor.
Virginia Woolf is my favorite author. The last book I read of hers was just last week: Mrs. Dalloway, which I didn't like quite as much on the whole as To the Lighthouse. Seriously, though, reading Virginia Woolf in study hall when I'm really tired is trippy. I'm also a great fan of Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings. The last book I read was Morningside Heights by Cheryl Mendelson. I liked it a lot, for a modern novel (I'd give it a 4/5); it reminded me a bit of Jane Austen in how planned out and intricate it was.
So that's me at the moment! Thanks for reading and please comment...
At the moment, as my age may suggest, I am a freshman at my local high school--believe me, I'm not that thrilled about it, but I was waitlisted at St. Mark's and Commonwealth, so I suppose I have to put that behind me (wait...wouldn't even mentioning that be alluding to it?) and I really am not sure what I want to do when I graduate. That is, when I graduate from college; I want to go to Oberlin college, where my dad went. Philosophy holds great attraction, as does psychology or writing; possibly music; I can see myself in law or science or something but that's not likely to happen, since whatever I end up doing will need a great degree of dedication.
I really do like music, which is necessary because my father is a choir director (my mother is a math teacher, which doesn't interest me quite as much. I'm no good with arithmetic but I like algebra.); you can check out the Slacker Radio box at the bottom of the page. My favorite band lately is probably Coldplay and my favorite individual artist is Sinead O'Connor.
Virginia Woolf is my favorite author. The last book I read of hers was just last week: Mrs. Dalloway, which I didn't like quite as much on the whole as To the Lighthouse. Seriously, though, reading Virginia Woolf in study hall when I'm really tired is trippy. I'm also a great fan of Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings. The last book I read was Morningside Heights by Cheryl Mendelson. I liked it a lot, for a modern novel (I'd give it a 4/5); it reminded me a bit of Jane Austen in how planned out and intricate it was.
So that's me at the moment! Thanks for reading and please comment...
13 April 2008
Blue of April
I have no sympathy for people who have the blues; for people who play the blues; for Picasso’s blue period. Blue is the happiest color I know, blue is the sky today. Blue is the definitive proof that I can still see.
I am reduced to worrying about camera flashes, because stabs of lights are supposed to be one of the signs that my retina is detaching, drifting inorexably and irresistably away from whatever anchors it to my optic nerve, like a meteor into the gravity of a passing star ship.
When the clouds drift across the sky in April, instead of obscuring the blue they appear to be celebrating as I am; tiny black clouds dancing vertically, the fluffy cumulus layering themselves to different wind speeds. The snow in the yard is reduced to a few shamed patches, like marshmallows melting into the brown of the fall's dead grass; steam rises from the asphalt shingles on the roof as snow melts in the direct force of the sun; from the roof, the bare trees are a thin ring around the edge of my peripheral vision, but the blue, the blue is my world.
I am reduced to worrying about camera flashes, because stabs of lights are supposed to be one of the signs that my retina is detaching, drifting inorexably and irresistably away from whatever anchors it to my optic nerve, like a meteor into the gravity of a passing star ship.
When the clouds drift across the sky in April, instead of obscuring the blue they appear to be celebrating as I am; tiny black clouds dancing vertically, the fluffy cumulus layering themselves to different wind speeds. The snow in the yard is reduced to a few shamed patches, like marshmallows melting into the brown of the fall's dead grass; steam rises from the asphalt shingles on the roof as snow melts in the direct force of the sun; from the roof, the bare trees are a thin ring around the edge of my peripheral vision, but the blue, the blue is my world.
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