A finch squeezes a sunflower seed with its beak. The black
shell cracks open and a dark tongue pushes the kernel. The shell splits and
falls away. The bird’s eyes are glassy black and gazing off into the trees. It seems
to be chewing absentmindedly. Its movements are jittery. It punches its head into
the feeder’s hole and spherical tan seeds spill to the ground below like sparks.
It extracts another sunflower seed and deftly sets about splitting it, too. The
claws are thin and boney, yet they suffice for balancing. Its head cocks
robotically. Spooked, it darts away in a smear of yellow. A blue jay swoops in
and lands weightily on the perch. The jay pecks frenziedly and wastes a great
deal of feed. I squint up at the sky through the stationary tree branches overhead.
It is cloudless.
We’ve been sitting on the porch since three. It is as early
as four or as late as five. My drink is sweating but I am not. An irregularly
shaped puddle accumulates around it on the crackled glass tabletop. I heard the
high should be 73° today.
“Something on your mind?” She’s looking up from her
magazine, which is now tilted in her lap. The lighting is such that I can see
one eye tinted behind a sunglass lens and the other is hidden.
Yes. Where did that finch go? “No. Nothing.”
She angles the borrowed magazine back to a reading position.
Her legs are crossed at the ankle atop a wicker ottoman with a maroon cushion.
The tops of her bare feet glow in the early autumn light. Her toenails glisten
red with chipped edges. Little white nets of dried skin frost the side
of her big toe.
The blue jay is gone. The feeder sways gently from its
departure.
Faintly on the air is the sound of children. One of them is
either excited or upset. Genders can’t be established. A family lives up the
street judging from the toys strewn about the front lawn. They don’t fret about
theft. Who would do such a thing?
I rub the outside of my ear by the opening, which feels
oily. I can take another bath tonight. I’ll submerge into the warmth and melt.
I’ll leave my nose exposed, pinch my ears shut, and hear the stethoscopic sounds
of respiration. I’ll feel the strange heft of my body as the water recedes down
the drain.
Watchless, I pat my pocket in search of my phone. There’s
nothing to retrieve. I remember my phone is dead in our room. How am I to know
when to get moving? Hunger or boredom will have to do. It’s okay. We have no
reservations. We are going to try the seafood place tonight. She’ll order a
shrimp dish. We will dress up and walk holding hands. It’s not too far.
This town is not so much sleepy as it is antique. Design is
neither showy nor neglected. Ornamentation does not announce itself but patiently
awaits its audience. Lights do not flash at night; the iron street lamps shine
steadily. Billboards do not obstruct; sandwich boards splay below eye level. The
architecture whispers. The buildings of the town square are mostly made of weathered
brick. They will stand tomorrow, monumental and undiminished. They are like a
grandfather to a toddler, tall but not imposing. Corbels like fiddleheads coil
underneath ledges trimmed with repeating patterns. Each storefront abuts the
next with its own color and texture, unity out of diversity. Skinny plate glass
windows reveal high ceilings edged with molding and lined with tin. Doors are topped
with transoms. The palate of the surrounding houses contains unabashed pastels. Wood shingles armor the roofs. The sidewalks are rumpled by sweet gum
and sugar maple roots. The lawns are supple and edged to perpendicular
perfection. Weeds are not allowed.
It feels wholesome. People are more courteous. The church
bells keep time. The drug store serves ice cream by the scoop. Take your seat
on a chromed bar stool. It’s a tourist attraction, but I don’t mind. Locals
patronize it, too. I imagine semi-annual parades with lazily flapping American
flags. How can you be nostalgic for an era you never knew?
The children and birds have departed. We are alone. I shift
my weight. This is nice, not doing anything. I feel empty but am fully here. It
is so quiet now I can hear the ginger ale fizzing as I pour more over the ice. The
translucent cluster rises and bobs near the surface. The carbonation makes a
fountain above the rim. I haven’t had ginger ale in ages. It was complimentary.
The innkeepers know what they’re doing.
The thought of this ending makes me complexly sad. A
fluttering heart and a dingy lifeless color are where the feeling starts. It
stops in paralysis. Checkout is a looming storm over the lake. There is no
stopping it. I wait for times like these and can never keep them. Even memories
will be forgotten. We have one more full day, though. Don’t ruin what's left. Do
not think about work. Stop thinking altogether.
The spice tickles my nose and I try to suppress a cough
unsuccessfully.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
The soda gently sloshes in the glass as I set it down with a
soft clank. I look at her. She is staring serenely into the magazine. The
stillness like a photograph. What is on her mind? She never seems as bothered as
me. She is simpler.
I wipe my fingers on my pants and leave a damp trail of
three fat, merging lines. A turning page is all that interrupts the breezeless
afternoon. The ginger’s heat lingers in my mouth.
My book lies split open out of the spreading puddle’s range.
I am not halfway to halfway. It is a lost cause. A lone and spartan black ant
is wandering futilely nearby the novel. Its antennae twitch in syncopation. There’s
nothing for it there, no crumb to cart away. How will it get back down? Maybe a
bird will snatch it.
Something small and hard under my shoe scrapes the ground as
I readjust. The patio is made of irregular white stone peppered with dirt or
maybe mold. Emerald tufts of stubbly moss frame a few pieces. Everything is
newer back home but not nicer. Everything here is used but no worse for the
wear. Age is not to be feared. Preservation is a virtue. These people are
investors who don't seek profit. They are a part of their town.They maintain instead of replace.
I slouch, clasp my hands on my stomach, and close my eyes. I
should be reading, but I can’t bring myself to. I’d rather idle. I planned on
finishing two books. That would be something to talk about, a clear answer to
post-trip inquiries. I should be taking advantage of the freedom. This was what
I had been anticipating for months. It’s what we worked for, scrimping four
hours off for every eighty worked, and it’s almost over. What have I done? I
have not done enough. My inactivity is shameful. Wasting time feels felonious. I
am a time killer. I plead guilty. Lock me up.
A part of me is uncomfortable with happiness. There is no
earning it, no taming it. It just comes and goes on its own. I would rather
strive. You can always strive.
Why am I classifying this as a waste? The rules do not apply here. We are outside all jurisdictions. We are
unknown and unknowing. We have immunity. It is okay to rest.
We are different now, children again. Alarms go unset. We
walk without clear destinations. There are no dishes to clean and towels are
left wadded on the ground. Meals are the only items on the list of things to
do. We drift, floating on our backs to nowhere in particular. We are
disconnected. There are no headlines to process and e-mails are left unread in
inboxes. I cannot remember being so uninformed and out of touch. We are out of
touch, though. Our relationships have no tactile element. At home, physical
distance has been traded for digital proximity. These people shake hands, hold
doors, and slap shoulders. I long to be one of them.
Like a child, I don’t want to go. I want to stay here and
now forever.
I warn myself against listening to the Sirens. This place is
unreal. It is not your home. Your home is with her. This trip is make-believe.
There is more than leisure and loafing. We must toil. The living truth of here is buried a foot deep in snow. The smiling citizens with their cable-knit
sweaters, topsiders, and half-moon reading glasses must fight the cold. The
freeze and thaw cycle, the road salt, and the tire chains disintegrate this
place annually. Transience is inescapable. Remember the grass does not stay
greener. My back aches at the thought of hefting a shovel.
“Hey, I’m gonna go get ready for dinner, okay?” She closes
her magazine and puts her feet down.
“Yeah okay. I’ll be in in a minute.”
She rises from her seat and smooths the wrinkles in her
shirt. As she passes, she strokes my shoulder. I follow her with my eyes. A ballpoint
pen poked through her hair keeps her bun together. The spiral of brunette arcs is
galactic. As she walks away, I notice her neck. Her vertebrae slightly protrude,
making a peapod shape. I feel the back of mine. My fingers rise and fall over
the bumps.
The feeder remains unoccupied and will increasingly be so. What can migrate will. The leaves are starting to turn. Yellow and orange are seeping into the green.
The edges are going dormant despite its lively appearance. Soon the trees will
be stripped bare. Emaciated winter with its skeletal limbs is closing in. The
chill will clutch those who remain.
I can and cannot move. Moving is dreadful. Sloth is
hypnotic. I hate time. I sigh emphatically.
An oak leaf flutters downward. In its twirling, it is
balletic. It falls with dignity but lands without hope.
Get up. It is time to go.
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