monkeyrobot's Diaryland Diary

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South Hadley Common

I lean back into the grass and put my hands behind my head. My finger tips are smooth, all the grooves filled in with silt and damp earth, and for the moment, I am unidentifiable.

I take my eyes off the Dutch skies that break and float across the South Hadley dusk, and watch you sort through the spiny crabgrass and crushed cement blocks that litter your flowerbed. I see a loose strand of brown hair fall against your face. When you look up and toss a rusty bottle cap in my direction, I smile and there is nothing but blank eyes back, and you return your attention to the three-pronged cultivator. I get a feeling that maybe I am not ever here.

I have a feeling that no one really is.

There is inkling, that many miles off something inimitable moves on the wind. It is impossible that any occurrence is connected to you, but the chance that it will touch on willfully tended earth gives you the idea to keep a toothbrush in your purse.

And I want to send a flare up against that Dutch sky, to distract the eye from alabaster against blue. I want to show you my position in hues of urgency.

There was a tumble of your mother’s photos getting to know tomato ends in the garbage, letters in hand script placed in the blue bin, and a mixed tape under your heel as you drove the highway.

So, I ask, only because I want to know if it exists.

“What do you love?” I ask.

She doesn’t look up. So, I sit up, and I say her name.

“Tell me, what is it? What do you love?”

She puts the cultivator down in the dirt, and looks at me as she wipes her mouth with the back of a glove. When she stands up she studies the swing set, but says nothing.

“Really. Just one thing?” I say.

Before the gloves come off and placed on a bench for the night, she twists her mouth as if there was a mix-up in directions.

I watch her walk up the hill, and hear the front door close.

Somewhere in the house a tap starts to run.

17:13 - May 14, 2002

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