All of this while I'm still eating breakfast. Almost. He's a flesh-and-blood WALL-E.
Rich finds comfort in a list.
Meanwhile, I pretend, too. Finishing a manuscript for a May 15 conference deadline. Yoga. Meditate. Bake bread. Talk with friends.
Then my neighbor appears outside my window, spraying poison on his dandelions.
Fucking asshole.
I explode. Charge at him in my pajamas, and don't care at all that it's noon and this doesn't make a good impression on his neat, ordered, dead life (these are my work clothes, asshole!)
Nothing changes. He sprays. I fantasize the dandelions rising at midnight, wrapping their hollow stems around his empty body...
I am grateful for him. Without such as he, we would never stop pretending.
Next stop: Miracle House.
Candace
1 comment:
You two never cease to amaze me with your candor, your absolute real-ness. I could absolutely picture myself with you at the breakfast table, the snap of attention that was the noticing of the dandelion killer.
The parallel between the dandelions as weeds and other kinds of unwanted but regrowing organisms with a life and will of their own is not lost on me. Pulling out the dandelion (surgery), spraying poison (chemo), the dandelion in Rich is winning. But not to forget is the rest of the garden, which is absolutely beautiful and always, always will be. You two are central in my thoughts.
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