Monday June 29, 2009
the brick factory
They are tearing down the brick factory - the only building in this town I love. I love it more than my own house. I stop to get photos and workmen appear out of nowhere, striding towards me with hands on hips, frowning.
I go *snap! snap!* and I run away.
My friend fell down on a concrete floor and broke his arm in three places. Three places - body, heart, spirit. I couldn’t be with him through five hours of lonely A&E. He said he saw an old Pacific Island pass out. He said he saw a young couple crying, their sick baby limp in their arms. He is scared to walk along the street in case someone jostles him. From this distance, all I can offer him is words. The words dissolve in my mouth, as useless as ash.
The rain is coming down in knives, slicing my face. The sky has been grey for months. Pools of frigid water gather at the bottom of the garden. I have to wade to the sleep out.
I bake too many sweet things because it warms the house and distracts the children. I rescue worms, flooded out of their earth abode by the rain.
I drive through sleet - I can’t see the road. I turn the radio up loud and hope I make it.
I go to a meeting and I take a crayfish and a trout, wrapped in tinfoil, still warm from cooking. They like that, at the meeting.
We suck at the bones, but no one eats the eyes.