I feel the warn woven cane against the backs of my thighs - slightly frayed along the seams. The itch. I press into the heels of my boots and rock backward, and forward, and backward, and forward, my arms resting against the chipped paint of the arms. I rub my thumb into the smoothness of the chair like it’s a rabbit’s foot, but luckier. Lucky because I remember when you and I sanded and painted a fresh coat of white to match the purity of the rail. Lucky because when I press into the heels of my boots and rub my thumb into the chair I can smell the sweetness of the decayed leaves, already fallen. Uninterrupted. Hoisted on the back of the breeze as if to say “it’s here! it’s here!” the sweat has ended and the fall has come and gone and I’ve buttoned my top button even though you preferred it undone. I close my eyes now, when I used to keep them open, because then I can see again. With eyes closed I can see your delicate feet pressed into the heels of your shoes and your chair rocking in tune with mine and my thumb pressed into the smoothness of back of your hand rubbing, caressing. I like to keep them closed now, my eyes, because every time I open them your chair is still empty.
Of those to whom much is given, much is required.JFK
For we live with those retrievals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout our lives, the way shattered pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope reappear in new forms and are songlike in their refrains and rhymes, making up a single monologue. We live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories, whatever story we tell.Michael Ondaatje, Divisadero (via mirroir)
(Source: word-digest, via looklikerain)
I point my finger up in the air and raise my eyebrows, my command clear. With the aged spring of the brass clasp - her collar secured - she bursts toward the the door like some kind of hyped sprinter stapled to the starting block. Once the door opens the outside rushes in and the outside in her explodes free, her nose blazing. Twelve paces to the right. A left. Down seven steps and then she squints, nose pointed skyward, seizing the scented jet streams as they nuzzle past her nose.
She knows where she’s going. At least I think she knows because she always takes me. Across the parking lot to the red brick corner where she sniffs and lifts her leg to pee. She prances now, the excitement waned. Confidently toeing the pavement panning for the next spot of I don’t know what but she clearly does because she freezes over it with her nose buried in the green blades of grass, snorting, hovering, then peeing some more. And so this continues. In the same manner. In the same pattern. At the same time.
At the halfway mark she’s comfortable again and so am I. The evening air pads my lungs and I exhale the stresses of the office, leaving my salaried duties gasping on the cement. Toward home we pause where the others must congregate. Imperfect circles of brown grass polka dot the lawn. With one last breath and one last piss we slip back into the musty shadows of the building when I realize it’s not I who walks her, but she who liberates me.
- Wyatt Glen