There's a fine dust filling my lungs a particle at a time. I know it's here because I see the motes of it swirling in the spartan lancing sunlight through the uncurtained window. The dust is unaffected, but I cannot claim the same apathy. My lungs are filling up. I can't tell exactly what's happening, the process is so imperceptible. But I do know that every five minutes, when I take a deep sigh and rock back on my chair and stretch my lungs out with the breathing, the dust settles a little more and my sighs get ever shallower. I wonder if I'll drown here, in this back office in Lancaster. I wonder if the dust will come slumping out as a dune, selling through my mouth and nose instead of my final breath, the ultimate punishment for my eating company time coming up with my last words for if I die of particulate inhalation. I'll try them out once to see how they feel.
As I speak, the motes once hanging in the streaks of sun from the window now spin, furiously, as if their once-peaceful existence is now enflamed with rage because their quarry has acknowledged their hunt. The dust engages a ceremonial carnival of sorts—a war dance to dedicate themselves once again to the cause. I can see their multitudes, but I accept death peacefully. I know my final words will be heard. If not by human ears, at least by my foe.
"Dust to dust."
Monday, October 26, 2015
10.26
Sunday, October 25, 2015
10.25
The grass here has always grown faster and greener than other places. I think this is the place they scraped all the topsoil to when they built our home. This is where I stepped out this morning and caught the first unmistakeable smell of winter: that old, sharp, tremulous smell of snow about to fall. I mowed today. This will be the last time until spring, I figure. I'll finish tomorrow, because today I have to stand here and smell. This is where I cut the fast, green grass that holds out until the hard thaws. This is where I caught the last unmistakeable smell of summer: the cloying, sweet, open smell of cut grass.
If you ever come home, I mowed the lawn for you. You should know that, because I'll be gone. If it's years from now and this spot has overgrown since, this letter will be all the proof I have. Maybe some part of you will mourn, then, in the patch of grass that always grows. Here, your heart will be too heavy, and you'll have to turn away, run, flee the memories you made. I just hope that in this place, at that time, you catch the smell of summer from the grass you crush as you spin to turn away from me and all the effort of keeping someone in your heart. I hope you catch the smell of summer because then I will at least have this last moment to share with you.
I know you'll have the smell of winter. You carry it always in your soul.
Friday, October 23, 2015
10.23
Thursday, October 22, 2015
10.22
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
10.20
Monday, October 19, 2015
10.19
Friday, October 16, 2015
10.17
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
10.14
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
10.13
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
10.6
Her voice is just right. I swear, it's exactly the mixture of happy and intelligent that I need right now. Every single word has just the slightest edge of oh my gosh! She tells me to do things, and I'm so excited to do them. She asks me to confirm my pin number and I could not be more thrilled at having to do it twice. I know she's just a machine, but when she says congratulations the weight of the world lifts off me. Then, she's gone, and the main menu lady is back again. She's alright, authoritative and controlling, but she's not what I love.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
10.4
The dog is whining, but I couldn't tell you why. We're in the living room, I feed him ten minutes ago, he has water to drink, his toys are spread across the floor, and I have been petting him most of the last hour. Now he just walked away from me and started whining at the door he walked into three hours ago and which I haven't closed since. Does he think he needs my permission to go out?
He doesn't.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
10.3
His fingers are so cold. He's been rubbing them slippery-fast together. I can tell his skin burned when the friction was the heat he made, but it's the flesh underneath that steals his heart and mine. I jump away from him and I can tell it breaks his heart.
Friday, October 2, 2015
10.2b
Salt-rubbed salmon: Mother's least favorite dish. She makes it every year for Father's birthday celebration. She doesn't let the fish smell that suffuses her skin or the saw salt that rubs her hands raw or the fear of the oven dissuade her. It's the only thing she cooks. It is her least favorite dish.
10.2
Foxholes. I create them, though not purpose-driven. Not thoughtfully, but thoughtlessly; blasting holes in our landscape so I, the privileged, can have somewhere to hide when the shelling is over. They are an accidentally useful side-effect of the words I throw at you in the heat of a moment (live ordnance meant to find its target but destined to fall short when you're so far away). Craters I slip into when the ratatat machine gun wash spatters across the muddy field or craters I find when you fire back with "Oh, so now women are responsible for this?"
"I said some women and you know it."
Foxholes.