September 23, 2012
I would rub my hands in the lemongrass to wash away fastfood and hearty handshakes, the smell already decaying under my fingernails.
The big soft poplar leaves would ripple like a child singing acapella, two notes.
I'll miss how the dark fell slowly, and quickly, and at the same time. It never left; always just beneath the musty dirt. It rose more than fell, and the force of it against the force of sunlight it smothered the heat of August.
I'll miss Buddy's fluffy smile and Daisy, who could kill on impact, but lets me rub her teeth.
I'll miss Edgar Allen Poe at 3 a.m., trembling and certain that Rappaccini was leaning on my cabin door.
I'll miss one boy's grassy tiptoes to my bed.
It wasn't easy.
My landlady decided to move.
When the bulldozers came, that sweet underground dirt smell was in every footprint. It was like blood; miraculous and too young to die to undeserving hands.
I saved what I could. I potted a tomato plant in my yellow trashcan and trudged up the hill to my car. Its vines trailed behind me like a disappointed wedding dress. I stole cement buckets for the peppers and basil. They were all punished for growing tall.
They're looking through the railing slats on the back porch now, not speaking.
When I sat down in my new room, I felt a throb through my jaw. I had gritted my teeth all week.