CANCELLATION IN THE KEY OF FIGS |
This morning: steady gusts of wind. A squirrel scampers up a tree, stands on its back legs, flicks its tail. The window’s open, and Johnny Cash croons a love song about the absent sun. Maybe I’ll cancel dinner with a friend, climb the fig tree, and fight birds for its fruit. I walk down the hill, hands in my pockets, and linger at the blackberry brambles that line a fence. Juice stains my hands. I pass my old school, my friend’s childhood home. The park bench where I first kissed someone: On the count of three. I pass the old motel, the neon sign flickering. The scent of jasmine. On the curb, a box of family photos, labeled Free. |