Some more from my trip to NY
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Friday, August 20, 2010
Good Night
I sat alone in the big empty house and stared out the window for what seemed like hours. With a sigh, I placed the post-it note on the computer monitor. “Read me,” called the scrawled handwriting in blue Sharpie. I stared at the screen, focused on the bright yellow flap of paper that represented my last hope to salvage my marriage. In the dark, I sat and waited, resigned to whatever fate awaited me.
For weeks, the spaces between us had grown cold with distance. We slept in the same bed, backs toward one another. Our conversation had limited itself to things like, “dinner’s ready.” I became alarmed when a week passed, and she was still leaving the living room whenever I came to rest on the couch beside her. She would get up and go into the office. Shortly afterward, I would hear the familiar sound of her fingers confiding to that faceless hunk of plastic and silicon all those intimacies she was withholding from me.
The next evening, I got home from work early. I knew that she kept a journal. In any other situation, it would never have occurred to me to violate her trust by reading the pages between. But this was different. I could feel our five year marriage crumbling around me, and I had to do something. She wasn’t speaking to me. With trepidation, I opening the leather-bound cover of the journal I had given her on Valentine’s Day the year that we met. On the first page I had inscribed a message to her.
“To Jen,” it read, “may you record the fulfillment of your dreams within these pages. In these hallowed halls, may you commit to paper your deepest secrets and wildest dreams. May you always find solace in the love that binds us. And in my arms, may you find a soft place to land.” A sense of failure consumed me, and I hesitated to turn the pages and read what lie ahead. Doing so meant that there would be no going back. My shortcomings as a husband would be revealed there on the page. My hand trembled, and my breath quickened as tremors of fear crept into my gut. Nevertheless, I continued. I had to know where her heart was.
As I flipped the pages, records of happier times flashed before me. “Harper’s Ferry,” read the heading on one entry. Not long after Valentine’s Day, we had taken a road trip to Harper’s Ferry. She couldn’t find a baby-sitter for the day, so we took her five year old daughter with us. “It was cold,” I spoke allowed. We walked, the three of us, hand in hand as the wind whipped around in our faces. We stopped in a small café to catch our warmth, and ordered some French fries. That was a good day.
Nervously, I flipped to end of her journal. I had to know what was going through her mind. She wouldn’t talk to me. Only the book of leatherbound paper, and the hunk of silicon and circuits in the office knew her secrets, and I was determined to know them too. Soon, I found the words that would change the direction of my life forever. “I just don’t know,” they read. “Everytime we touch, make love, I hate myself a little more,” the words rocketed through my brain. “I don’t want a divorce, but I don’t see an alternative.”
I sat on the bed, devastated. What had I done that had driven her to this extreme? I pickup up the journal and flipped backwards, seeking answers. I discovered, to my surprise, that she had thought of leaving me in 2001. When 9/11 happened, however, she decided that we would make it work. 2001? We had only married in 1999? Had we been drifting apart for that long? Was I just too oblivious to notice? I recalled that our life was filled with turmoil during those days. We had filed for bankruptcy in 2000, and just after 9/11 we had to move in with a friend because Jen had quit her job. These were stresses to be sure, but nothing I thought we couldn’t handle.
“Marriages end because someone cheats,” I thought to myself. “ I’ve never so much as looked at another woman.” Within the pages of her journal, I found entries that indicated she suspected that I might be capable of doing so. I was crushed. “How could we be so close and still not see each other,” I questioned. Tears filled my eyes as I felt the anguish of having let such distance come between us that we couldn’t even see each other for who we were anymore. There were no records indicating that she had cheated either. I know. I checked that too.
We needed to talk. But how could I force a conversation with her, without letting on that I had read her journal. I wanted to talk, not fight. After all, I had an idea that the conversation was not going to be pleasant at any rate. I recalled how she had the habit of leaving the room to chat on the internet with her friends whenever I entered the room. I saw my chance.
I waited until Wednesday evening. She liked to attend the Wednesday service at the local community church. While she was at the service, I sat down at wrote her a short letter that let her know I had noticed the distance between us growing. “All I want to know is if there is chance for us to fix this, or if we’re better off figuring out how to untangle our lives,” I wrote. I made sure not to hit too close to the mark on any of the things that I had read in her journal. Than, I placed the post-it note on the computer screen and waited for my answer.
In the darkness, I waited, listening to the clock tick, tick, tick from it’s perch on the mantle. Then, the shadows on the floor scattered, torn and ripped asunder, as headlights flooded up the driveway. “Moment of truth,” I muttered.
I will never forget the absolute stillness in the air as she read my note. I sat in the other room, transfixed in the moment as I awaited for some sign that my words had reached her. I saw the answer in the tears the rolled down her cheeks. As she sat next to me on the couch, I expected a conversation. What I got was a note. “I want to work things out,” it read as my heart heaved a sigh, “ but I can’t do this anymore.” My heart evaporated in my chest. The air escaped my lungs against my will. I struggled to keep it together. “Isn’t there something….we could…like..uh..counseling, maybe,” I stammered. “I just don’t love you anymore,” was the reply, carved in ice.
“Okay,” I said. We held each other, shamelessly, for the first time in months. Silently, we agreed that it was over. We had fought the fight and lost. As the fingers of night enveloped us, we made our way upstairs. We slept in the same bed, backs toward one another. Our conversation was limited to things like, “good night” and “I’m sorry.”
For weeks, the spaces between us had grown cold with distance. We slept in the same bed, backs toward one another. Our conversation had limited itself to things like, “dinner’s ready.” I became alarmed when a week passed, and she was still leaving the living room whenever I came to rest on the couch beside her. She would get up and go into the office. Shortly afterward, I would hear the familiar sound of her fingers confiding to that faceless hunk of plastic and silicon all those intimacies she was withholding from me.
The next evening, I got home from work early. I knew that she kept a journal. In any other situation, it would never have occurred to me to violate her trust by reading the pages between. But this was different. I could feel our five year marriage crumbling around me, and I had to do something. She wasn’t speaking to me. With trepidation, I opening the leather-bound cover of the journal I had given her on Valentine’s Day the year that we met. On the first page I had inscribed a message to her.
“To Jen,” it read, “may you record the fulfillment of your dreams within these pages. In these hallowed halls, may you commit to paper your deepest secrets and wildest dreams. May you always find solace in the love that binds us. And in my arms, may you find a soft place to land.” A sense of failure consumed me, and I hesitated to turn the pages and read what lie ahead. Doing so meant that there would be no going back. My shortcomings as a husband would be revealed there on the page. My hand trembled, and my breath quickened as tremors of fear crept into my gut. Nevertheless, I continued. I had to know where her heart was.
As I flipped the pages, records of happier times flashed before me. “Harper’s Ferry,” read the heading on one entry. Not long after Valentine’s Day, we had taken a road trip to Harper’s Ferry. She couldn’t find a baby-sitter for the day, so we took her five year old daughter with us. “It was cold,” I spoke allowed. We walked, the three of us, hand in hand as the wind whipped around in our faces. We stopped in a small café to catch our warmth, and ordered some French fries. That was a good day.
Nervously, I flipped to end of her journal. I had to know what was going through her mind. She wouldn’t talk to me. Only the book of leatherbound paper, and the hunk of silicon and circuits in the office knew her secrets, and I was determined to know them too. Soon, I found the words that would change the direction of my life forever. “I just don’t know,” they read. “Everytime we touch, make love, I hate myself a little more,” the words rocketed through my brain. “I don’t want a divorce, but I don’t see an alternative.”
I sat on the bed, devastated. What had I done that had driven her to this extreme? I pickup up the journal and flipped backwards, seeking answers. I discovered, to my surprise, that she had thought of leaving me in 2001. When 9/11 happened, however, she decided that we would make it work. 2001? We had only married in 1999? Had we been drifting apart for that long? Was I just too oblivious to notice? I recalled that our life was filled with turmoil during those days. We had filed for bankruptcy in 2000, and just after 9/11 we had to move in with a friend because Jen had quit her job. These were stresses to be sure, but nothing I thought we couldn’t handle.
“Marriages end because someone cheats,” I thought to myself. “ I’ve never so much as looked at another woman.” Within the pages of her journal, I found entries that indicated she suspected that I might be capable of doing so. I was crushed. “How could we be so close and still not see each other,” I questioned. Tears filled my eyes as I felt the anguish of having let such distance come between us that we couldn’t even see each other for who we were anymore. There were no records indicating that she had cheated either. I know. I checked that too.
We needed to talk. But how could I force a conversation with her, without letting on that I had read her journal. I wanted to talk, not fight. After all, I had an idea that the conversation was not going to be pleasant at any rate. I recalled how she had the habit of leaving the room to chat on the internet with her friends whenever I entered the room. I saw my chance.
I waited until Wednesday evening. She liked to attend the Wednesday service at the local community church. While she was at the service, I sat down at wrote her a short letter that let her know I had noticed the distance between us growing. “All I want to know is if there is chance for us to fix this, or if we’re better off figuring out how to untangle our lives,” I wrote. I made sure not to hit too close to the mark on any of the things that I had read in her journal. Than, I placed the post-it note on the computer screen and waited for my answer.
In the darkness, I waited, listening to the clock tick, tick, tick from it’s perch on the mantle. Then, the shadows on the floor scattered, torn and ripped asunder, as headlights flooded up the driveway. “Moment of truth,” I muttered.
I will never forget the absolute stillness in the air as she read my note. I sat in the other room, transfixed in the moment as I awaited for some sign that my words had reached her. I saw the answer in the tears the rolled down her cheeks. As she sat next to me on the couch, I expected a conversation. What I got was a note. “I want to work things out,” it read as my heart heaved a sigh, “ but I can’t do this anymore.” My heart evaporated in my chest. The air escaped my lungs against my will. I struggled to keep it together. “Isn’t there something….we could…like..uh..counseling, maybe,” I stammered. “I just don’t love you anymore,” was the reply, carved in ice.
“Okay,” I said. We held each other, shamelessly, for the first time in months. Silently, we agreed that it was over. We had fought the fight and lost. As the fingers of night enveloped us, we made our way upstairs. We slept in the same bed, backs toward one another. Our conversation was limited to things like, “good night” and “I’m sorry.”
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Love Lies Bleeding
Cimmerian mists
ooze a damson nocturne,
rubiginous buds bloom un-noticed-
As two lovers linger in amorous collusion;
A streetlamp proliferates
its wine-colored lumination
across the avenue,
and the neon fixture
of a neighboring storefront
casts a carnelian glow
upon the scene;
While frolicsome shadows dance about
in nigrescent celebration,
a night owl hoots in harmony
with the whispering intonation
of the rushing wind-
The evening air is sinfully alive
with the jingle-jangle jive
of a jazz piano
and the street is filled
with crowded silence
as love lies bleeding....
ooze a damson nocturne,
rubiginous buds bloom un-noticed-
As two lovers linger in amorous collusion;
A streetlamp proliferates
its wine-colored lumination
across the avenue,
and the neon fixture
of a neighboring storefront
casts a carnelian glow
upon the scene;
While frolicsome shadows dance about
in nigrescent celebration,
a night owl hoots in harmony
with the whispering intonation
of the rushing wind-
The evening air is sinfully alive
with the jingle-jangle jive
of a jazz piano
and the street is filled
with crowded silence
as love lies bleeding....
The Leaf
I watched a leaf today,
one whose emerald virtue
had long since faded,
and left in its stead
a bronzed fellow,
fringed with gold
and freckled with vermilion-
I watched this leaf
intently
as it drifted slowly downward,
borne on Autumn’s gentle wind
And as I watched this solitary leaf,
while it was tossed and tussled about,
carried ever so gently through the air
until it perched precariously
on the edge of tomorrow,
I saw that it was very much alone.
and in my soul,
I’m sure I heard a solemn rhapsody,
a melancholy reverie...
loneliness is a dark hole,
and scarce are those
who e’er escape.
one whose emerald virtue
had long since faded,
and left in its stead
a bronzed fellow,
fringed with gold
and freckled with vermilion-
I watched this leaf
intently
as it drifted slowly downward,
borne on Autumn’s gentle wind
And as I watched this solitary leaf,
while it was tossed and tussled about,
carried ever so gently through the air
until it perched precariously
on the edge of tomorrow,
I saw that it was very much alone.
and in my soul,
I’m sure I heard a solemn rhapsody,
a melancholy reverie...
loneliness is a dark hole,
and scarce are those
who e’er escape.
Shovels Are For Digging (DRAFT)
The wind whistled its way through the corn fields, bending a stalk this way or that, to or fro, as it saw fit. The air was lonely, stagnant and still, having no other place to be save everywhere and nowhere all in the same instant. The sun hovered lazily above, lolling about in an azure sky, scorching the earth below out of sheer boredom. Somewhere, a radio played Johnny Cash, Folsom Prison Blues drifting faintly upwards, then fading, consumed by an ever expansive stillness. A two-laned highway meandered its way through the country-side, splitting the corn field in half, then wandering off to meet the horizon. The quiet of the moment was shattered briefly by the obnoxious roar of a passing dump truck. A single pine watched curiously as the truck vanished in the distance, along with its barrage of sound, once again restoring the setting to its original forlorn state.
In a clearing, free of corn stalks and tall grasses, resided a farmhouse, a melancholy little dwelling boasting a sagging front porch, and a rusting tin roof. From the road, one could see a man working in the yard. A slight breeze ruffled his chestnut hair, cooling his sweat-soaked skin, as he maneuvered his dull, green tractor through the yard in neat little rows, leaving a clean-shaven lawn in its wake. He raised his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow, too slowly, however, to prevent it from dripping down his cheek, teasing his lips with saline kisses.
The enticing aroma of fried chicken, butter-laden potatoes, and vinegar-drenched collards wafted through the open kitchen window of the farmhouse. Emma stood in the kitchen, peering out the window at John, toiling in the hot sun. She grabbed a dishcloth from the sink basin, and soaked it under a stream of cool tap water. Ringing it out, she folded it three times, lengthwise, and placed the dishcloth on her forehead to absorb her own sweat. Glancing over at the stove, she laid the dishcloth down, proceeding to remove the, now, cooked chicken breasts from their greasy bath. She turned the burners off for the potatoes and the collards as well, placing lids on the pots where they rested.
" Sammy! Go tell your father supper's ready, " Emma called to her four-year old son, as she gathered dishes from the china cabinet, preparing to set the table.
Sam ran down the stairs, his miniature construction boots making thunderously loud thumps with each mini step.
" Oh boy!," Sammy cried as he ran through the kitchen, past Emma, and out the screen door, " Fried chicken!"
Emma watched from the window as Sammy scurried excitedly across the yard, his feet disappearing at each step into the green-brown grass. She stood, once again applying the moistened dishcloth to her forehead, observing John as he stopped the tractor, turning his attention towards Sam. After a few moments, John reached down and grabbed Sammy, lifting him onto his lap. When John, with Sammy on board, steered the tractor toward the house, Emma focused herself on setting the table.
She adorned the table with three hand-made placemats, blue and white and crafted with the image of faceless Amish characters embroidered in the middle. She had made them herself, as she did many household things. They were handsomely made, and they matched the wallpaper in the kitchen, white and covered with little blue flowers. Emma smiled, as she placed paper napkins on each of the placemats, admiring her handiwork while she set the table with silverware.
The screen door squealed slightly as John entered carrying Sam in his arms, then rapped in annoyance as it swung closed.
" Smells like food!, " John said boisterously, setting Sammy down on the floor, " Better be enough for and army. Me and little man, here, are hungry. Ain't that right,
boy? "
" Hungry for chicken!, " Sam laughed, running over to watch as Emma moved the chicken and the covered pots from the stove to the center of the kitchen table.
" Well, there's plenty here! Wash up before you sit down, Sam, " Emma stated in a motherly fashion, escorting Sammy gently from the kitchen, upstairs to the bathroom.
John walked over to the kitchen sink, turning on the water as he grabbed a bottle of bright green dish detergent from the counter. He washed his hands vigorously. Then he grabbed the dishcloth, the same one Emma had been using, and ran it under the lukewarm water. He wiped the sweat off his brow and neck, dropping the rag in the sink when he was done. Just as he finished, Emma and Sam re-entered the kitchen.
" All clean?, " John said, a playful grin emerging on his lips as he reached out and grabbed Emma by the hips. He pulled her close until he felt her breasts against his muscular chest. They stood still for a moment, mere seconds in reality, two souls intertwined and bound together by love. Then, John gave her a small kiss on the lips.
" I love you, " John said, turning to look at the table, " let's eat!"
" Goody!" cried Sam, rushing hurriedly to grab his spot at the dinner table.
" Don't you dare touch any of that food until we say grace, young man!," Emma warned Sam as she and John joined him at the table.
Once the entire family was seated around the table, Emma bowed her head. John bowed his head as well.
" Father," Emma began, before she was soundly interrupted.
" Let me say it! You promised you'd let me say it!," Sam protested, his eyes all aglow with eagerness.
" Okay, Sam, go ahead," John said, smiling as he glanced over at Emma, a quaint little smirk shone upon her face.
" God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for our food! Amen! Can we eat now?," Sam quickly blessed the meal.
" Now we can eat, " said Emma, as she began to heap a modest pile of mashed potatoes on Sam's plate," How many chicken legs do you want?"
" Three! I want three!," Sam answered.
" How about two instead. You'll never eat three!," Emma insisted.
" I want three. Why can't I have three?," Sam questioned.
" All right, you can have three, but you'd better eat 'em!," Emma said sternly.
The pot of collard greens was passed around the table, as each plate received its due portion. A pleasant breeze drifted in faintly through the open window, carrying with it the sweet scent of fresh honey-suckle. The breeze was not enough, however, to eliminate the need for the small oscillating fan, perched upon the counter, sending cool relief throughout the kitchen.
" Sam wants you to make him a sandbox so he has a place to play with his toys," Emma began, breaking a brief silence to begin conversation anew.
" Yeah, I guess he could use a place to play with his toys. Least then I wouldn't have to worry about them being scattered across the whole damn yard!," John agreed, a slight sarcasm in his voice.
" Will you build it, Dad? Will you build me a sandbox?," Sam gasped excitedly, his mouth still full of mashed potatoes.
" Don't talk with your mouth full, Sam. You know better than that!," Emma scolded the way mothers do.
" Yeah!," John picked up where Sam had left off," I guess I could make one tomorrow."
" Promise!?," Sam demanded.
" Okay, I promise we’ll make your sandbox tomorrow. How's that!," John answered, grinning slightly as he looked at Sam.
" All right!," Sam exclaimed, his mouth still full of potatoes.
" What did I tell you about talking with your mouth full?," Emma scolded once more.
Dinner was over quickly, as the plates which were set upon the table were filled with loads of food, and emptied of their cargo just as fast. After dinner, Sam darted out the door, eager to while away the last few remaining hours of sunlight playing in the yard. Emma arose from the table where John was still seated, and began to gather the dishes from the table, loading them into the sink. Once all the dishes were in the sink, she turned on the water, and poured some detergent into the sink as well.
" That was a good meal, Hon," John said, as Emma. with her back to him, was preparing to wash the dishes.
" Thank you. I figured I'd fry chicken since we hadn't had it in a while," Emma answered, the fan blowing strands of her dark, shoulder-length hair across her face.
“ Tractor’s running low on fuel. Have to run into town and fill up the gas can,” John uttered with a sigh, “and maybe pick up some sand for Bobby’s sandbox.”
“ You got everything else you need already?” replied Emma, surprised.
“Out in the garage..nails, wood…what else is there?, John posed with a grin.
In a clearing, free of corn stalks and tall grasses, resided a farmhouse, a melancholy little dwelling boasting a sagging front porch, and a rusting tin roof. From the road, one could see a man working in the yard. A slight breeze ruffled his chestnut hair, cooling his sweat-soaked skin, as he maneuvered his dull, green tractor through the yard in neat little rows, leaving a clean-shaven lawn in its wake. He raised his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow, too slowly, however, to prevent it from dripping down his cheek, teasing his lips with saline kisses.
The enticing aroma of fried chicken, butter-laden potatoes, and vinegar-drenched collards wafted through the open kitchen window of the farmhouse. Emma stood in the kitchen, peering out the window at John, toiling in the hot sun. She grabbed a dishcloth from the sink basin, and soaked it under a stream of cool tap water. Ringing it out, she folded it three times, lengthwise, and placed the dishcloth on her forehead to absorb her own sweat. Glancing over at the stove, she laid the dishcloth down, proceeding to remove the, now, cooked chicken breasts from their greasy bath. She turned the burners off for the potatoes and the collards as well, placing lids on the pots where they rested.
" Sammy! Go tell your father supper's ready, " Emma called to her four-year old son, as she gathered dishes from the china cabinet, preparing to set the table.
Sam ran down the stairs, his miniature construction boots making thunderously loud thumps with each mini step.
" Oh boy!," Sammy cried as he ran through the kitchen, past Emma, and out the screen door, " Fried chicken!"
Emma watched from the window as Sammy scurried excitedly across the yard, his feet disappearing at each step into the green-brown grass. She stood, once again applying the moistened dishcloth to her forehead, observing John as he stopped the tractor, turning his attention towards Sam. After a few moments, John reached down and grabbed Sammy, lifting him onto his lap. When John, with Sammy on board, steered the tractor toward the house, Emma focused herself on setting the table.
She adorned the table with three hand-made placemats, blue and white and crafted with the image of faceless Amish characters embroidered in the middle. She had made them herself, as she did many household things. They were handsomely made, and they matched the wallpaper in the kitchen, white and covered with little blue flowers. Emma smiled, as she placed paper napkins on each of the placemats, admiring her handiwork while she set the table with silverware.
The screen door squealed slightly as John entered carrying Sam in his arms, then rapped in annoyance as it swung closed.
" Smells like food!, " John said boisterously, setting Sammy down on the floor, " Better be enough for and army. Me and little man, here, are hungry. Ain't that right,
boy? "
" Hungry for chicken!, " Sam laughed, running over to watch as Emma moved the chicken and the covered pots from the stove to the center of the kitchen table.
" Well, there's plenty here! Wash up before you sit down, Sam, " Emma stated in a motherly fashion, escorting Sammy gently from the kitchen, upstairs to the bathroom.
John walked over to the kitchen sink, turning on the water as he grabbed a bottle of bright green dish detergent from the counter. He washed his hands vigorously. Then he grabbed the dishcloth, the same one Emma had been using, and ran it under the lukewarm water. He wiped the sweat off his brow and neck, dropping the rag in the sink when he was done. Just as he finished, Emma and Sam re-entered the kitchen.
" All clean?, " John said, a playful grin emerging on his lips as he reached out and grabbed Emma by the hips. He pulled her close until he felt her breasts against his muscular chest. They stood still for a moment, mere seconds in reality, two souls intertwined and bound together by love. Then, John gave her a small kiss on the lips.
" I love you, " John said, turning to look at the table, " let's eat!"
" Goody!" cried Sam, rushing hurriedly to grab his spot at the dinner table.
" Don't you dare touch any of that food until we say grace, young man!," Emma warned Sam as she and John joined him at the table.
Once the entire family was seated around the table, Emma bowed her head. John bowed his head as well.
" Father," Emma began, before she was soundly interrupted.
" Let me say it! You promised you'd let me say it!," Sam protested, his eyes all aglow with eagerness.
" Okay, Sam, go ahead," John said, smiling as he glanced over at Emma, a quaint little smirk shone upon her face.
" God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for our food! Amen! Can we eat now?," Sam quickly blessed the meal.
" Now we can eat, " said Emma, as she began to heap a modest pile of mashed potatoes on Sam's plate," How many chicken legs do you want?"
" Three! I want three!," Sam answered.
" How about two instead. You'll never eat three!," Emma insisted.
" I want three. Why can't I have three?," Sam questioned.
" All right, you can have three, but you'd better eat 'em!," Emma said sternly.
The pot of collard greens was passed around the table, as each plate received its due portion. A pleasant breeze drifted in faintly through the open window, carrying with it the sweet scent of fresh honey-suckle. The breeze was not enough, however, to eliminate the need for the small oscillating fan, perched upon the counter, sending cool relief throughout the kitchen.
" Sam wants you to make him a sandbox so he has a place to play with his toys," Emma began, breaking a brief silence to begin conversation anew.
" Yeah, I guess he could use a place to play with his toys. Least then I wouldn't have to worry about them being scattered across the whole damn yard!," John agreed, a slight sarcasm in his voice.
" Will you build it, Dad? Will you build me a sandbox?," Sam gasped excitedly, his mouth still full of mashed potatoes.
" Don't talk with your mouth full, Sam. You know better than that!," Emma scolded the way mothers do.
" Yeah!," John picked up where Sam had left off," I guess I could make one tomorrow."
" Promise!?," Sam demanded.
" Okay, I promise we’ll make your sandbox tomorrow. How's that!," John answered, grinning slightly as he looked at Sam.
" All right!," Sam exclaimed, his mouth still full of potatoes.
" What did I tell you about talking with your mouth full?," Emma scolded once more.
Dinner was over quickly, as the plates which were set upon the table were filled with loads of food, and emptied of their cargo just as fast. After dinner, Sam darted out the door, eager to while away the last few remaining hours of sunlight playing in the yard. Emma arose from the table where John was still seated, and began to gather the dishes from the table, loading them into the sink. Once all the dishes were in the sink, she turned on the water, and poured some detergent into the sink as well.
" That was a good meal, Hon," John said, as Emma. with her back to him, was preparing to wash the dishes.
" Thank you. I figured I'd fry chicken since we hadn't had it in a while," Emma answered, the fan blowing strands of her dark, shoulder-length hair across her face.
“ Tractor’s running low on fuel. Have to run into town and fill up the gas can,” John uttered with a sigh, “and maybe pick up some sand for Bobby’s sandbox.”
“ You got everything else you need already?” replied Emma, surprised.
“Out in the garage..nails, wood…what else is there?, John posed with a grin.
I Was There
I was a fly once
once I could fly
not very well, of course,
never could get used
to all those eyes
but i was there
zoomin’ around
bumping into apples and bananas and dogs
once, a box of cereal fell on me-
no, i was not a successful fly
but i was there
until they squashed me
newspaper, i think
Sunday edition
in a way, it sorta pisses me off
a lifetime of dodging windshields
and buglights
down the drain
all because of some stupid sports section
then, again, i can’t complain
i am much better suited to being human
correction--i’m much better suited to being Me
but i was a fly once
yup, i was there.
once I could fly
not very well, of course,
never could get used
to all those eyes
but i was there
zoomin’ around
bumping into apples and bananas and dogs
once, a box of cereal fell on me-
no, i was not a successful fly
but i was there
until they squashed me
newspaper, i think
Sunday edition
in a way, it sorta pisses me off
a lifetime of dodging windshields
and buglights
down the drain
all because of some stupid sports section
then, again, i can’t complain
i am much better suited to being human
correction--i’m much better suited to being Me
but i was a fly once
yup, i was there.
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