Category: Writing

With a thunderous clang, the dumpster slams against the top of the truck – a hulking beast yellow and green with silver hydraulic arms. Another crash. The emptied dumpster released – a shady corner parking lot of the shuttered bank. Violence done, hit and run; the truck beep beep backs up and lumbers away.

The distant fires of dawn line the horizon. Barren tree limbs and bottle brush pines stand like the shadowy images of trees as if in a painting of trees against a multicolored and layered sky. Daybreak or sunset – depends on which window I’m looking through. My eyes always drawn towards the light.

In eleven years (and one day), it’ll be eleven / twenty-two / thirty-three. I hope it doesn’t go unnoticed like big miles on old odometers. I imagine on the twenty-third waking up… “shit, I missed it.” The way I’ve looked down from the passing hills and winding roads to see 150,002 miles.

The weather app says twenty-one degrees (feels like seven). Winds swirl and sting. Eyes water. Hustle hustle, no time to sniff. Almost home, I contemplate the difference between curses and cusses. Eff this tundra bullshit. Or maybe just damn this weather to hell – where at least one might expect a warming fire.

I woke again – another day from which to rescue hope from a thousand possible calamities. Out there, someone who fell out of love long ago decides today’s the day to leave. Out there, someone else stands excited in their first apartment – empty spaces stretch beyond reach. I’m here to get it down.

Face-down phones buzz against the bar – emergency alert: snow squall warning. The people buzz quiets down then picks up again. Winds swirl shaking trees, and the cars in the parking lot nearly disappear behind a white fog of snow. The talk inside turns to Buffalo – someone somewhere else always has it worse.

Watery eyes on a windswept day look to the skies. I imagine my nose and cheeks might be reddened. There is no shop window in which to reflect on this other self. Which neighbors watch from behind curtains as the dog and I pass by? What they see is yet another self.

A woman walked into the office looking for help. She’s new to the area and living off food stamps –  doesn’t know anyone or where to turn. As I helped her with resources, she stopped me, touched my arm – said I spoke softly with her, made her feel calm. She liked that.  

An embankment separates the highway. It dips then rises about fifteen feet. I can’t remember if the pickup was upside down or on its side, hanging from the guardrail. It had climbed the hill and gotten stuck – never launching into oncoming traffic (winter weather conditions). Passing the wreck, we drove cautiously.

These clouds are not yesterday’s clouds. The air’s a little cooler. Stained shingles on the neighbor’s roof weather one day closer to being replaced. The new shoots on the aloe plant are a little taller too. How many November days pass like this – similar but slightly different?  How many Novembers go unnoticed?