Posts tagged “despair

Under the Cherry Trees

The man stood in the doorway for a moment before grabbing the elongated brass handle to open the door.  He was looking at the house to the west of his and noticed how the image of the lowering sun was about to touch the roofline.  The slate roof seemed to dip in the moment of the sun’s contact, causing the illusion that the weight of the sun was bearing down on the roof, or maybe the roof was molding itself to the shape of the sun to give it a more comfortable resting place at the end of its long day.  The sun was bright, of course, but softened somehow in the closer atmosphere and haze of industry and pollen and life that existed above the horizon’s curving line, so the man stood there with unshielded eyes and continued to watch the sun’s dip into and below the roof line.  He turned away and the golden glow remained in his eyes as he looked through the door’s glass to find his son.  It was time for dinner and the boy was somewhere outside.

The door handle lowered without a sound and the door swung open quietly as the man pushed against it and walked out onto the back patio of the house.  As he passed the mustard-colored and rectangular-shaped charcoal grill, he noticed that it still smelled of burnt sugar from the last time he barbequed ribs.  It had been a couple weeks or more, but the scent still lingered.  The man was barefoot and noticed, too, that the cement of the patio was still warm from the day’s sun, but the grass was cool as he stepped into it and began his search for his son.  The man turned to the left from the patio and looked into the back-yard proper, gazing at the rock-fronted embankments that supported the tiered lawn that rose from the yard up to the street that ran behind his house.  As he walked toward the front of the house that faced the town’s park, he craned his neck to look further into the yard to where the boy liked to play around the young, conical pine trees that resembled miniature Christmas trees when they were dusted or coated with December’s snow.

The evening was peaceful, now that the neighborhood kids had left the park and gone home or wherever after playing soccer for most of the afternoon.  Looking toward the east and over the hills that fronted that side of the town, the man noticed the swallows darting over the park for their evening feeding and play-time.  Overhead, the clouds were pink and orange and white and darkening gray with the falling sun and approaching night.  Further north, he could still see the white line of a plane’s contrail that was still intact even though the plane had been gone for hours…just the singular, lined cloud was left in its passing.  The man didn’t see his son anywhere, not in this side of the yard and not out in the park.  He thought about calling-out for him, but didn’t want to break the quiet by raising his voice or yelling.  Instead, he retraced his steps around the house, passed the back-door patio, and toward the other end of the yard, the side that fronted their street.  The man walked along the low hedge that separated his yard from the neighbor’s and then past the gooseberry bushes and toward the side of the house where he could peek around the corner to see if his son was playing under the cherry trees.  His step was quiet in the cool grass and the moss that grew thinly among the grass where he was, but was thicker under the trees.

Because the sun had completely lowered itself beneath the roofline of the neighbor’s house by now, there was no chance of the man’s son seeing his father’s shadow intrude into his quiet play.  When the man slowly moved his head around the corner, he saw that his son was sitting cross-legged, facing away from him, and leaning forward with his hands busy at some task.  The boy had his tan and green army-men positioned in loose rows and partially hidden in the moss, or situated behind various military vehicles and broken sticks from the trees above him.  He occasionally leaned back or to the right or left to straighten a fallen man or to move a truck closer to the grouped men, enacting some strategy or maneuver of protection or attack.  The boy even rolled a golf-ball or lightly tossed a shiny, black cherry in the direction of the men, imagining that they were rockets or some other projectile, sometimes knocking over one of the men or coming to rest next to or on top of one of the vehicles, and sometimes not.  With the impact of the cherries or golf ball, the boy made his eleven year-old’s version of a soft explosion…a hushed “pkshew!” that he thought only he could hear.

The man smiled to himself as he watched and listened to his son.  He saw the purplish-pink stains on the boy’s white t-shirt and imagined the cherry-fight that he had had with his friends earlier in the afternoon…the cherry-fight that he wasn’t supposed to have had.  As the man attempted to kneel down into the moss and grass next to the house, his shorts scraped on the prickly stucco finish on the house and startled his son.  The boy was in mid-reach across his battlefield and gasped and dropped one of his army men as he jerked and turned around to face his father.

The boy’s heart was pounding and his mouth was suddenly dry.  “I didn’t know you were there,” he said.  His mind was racing back through his day, wondering at what he might have done wrong, wondering what little or grand sin had been revealed and was now set to ruin what he thought was an otherwise good day, and wondering why, if he hadn’t done anything wrong, his father was there on the side of the yard looking for him…and getting ready to sit down like he was planning to stay for a while.

“Well, I wasn’t here for very long.  What are you doing?”

The boy tried to swallow.  “Just playing…Army.”

“Weren’t your friends out here earlier?”

“Yes Sir, but they had to leave.”

“Which friends were here?”

“When?”

“You said your friends were here earlier.  Which ones were here?”

The boy looked across the gravel and grass driveway and out into the park where the swallows were still darting around.  He saw a couple boys at the water fountain at the far side of the park.  “I…don’t know,” he stammered.  “I don’t remember.”

“But they were just here,” the man said, “who were they?  You’re not in trouble, Stephan, I’m just asking which friends were here.”

“Hansi and Martin.”

“Isn’t Hansi’s father the butcher?”

“I don’t know.  I think so…maybe.”

“Isn’t he one of those older boys that you were playing with in the spring and got into trouble with?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t remember,” the father said, “when you guys stole the bratwurst and then went off into the woods and cooked it?  You don’t remember that?”

“No Sir.”

“What?”

“Yes Sir…I…think I remember.”

“Wasn’t Hansi one of those older boys?”

The boys had moved from the water fountain and were now kicking a soccer ball out on the field at the park.  “I don’t know.”

The man sat down in the grass and moss and leaned against the house.  “Stephan…look at me.  You’re not in trouble…we’re just talking…ok?  You can answer me,” said the man.  “Look…here,” he said, pointing to his eyes.  “You’re ok.”

The boy turned his head from watching the boys with the soccer ball and met his father’s eyes.  He didn’t answer him immediately, but just looked at him.  This was unusual for him; the boy…he felt odd, bold somehow…maybe even brave.  His father’s manner and voice were unsettling.  There was none of the harshness or sarcasm that he was used to…and his eyes didn’t look angry.  It looked like his father was really just asking him a question…not investigating an offense.

“Augie’s father is the butcher,” said the boy, “but Hansi was part of the group that did that, yes Sir.”

“Is that Hansi out there playing soccer?”

The boy looked at the two other boys out on the field for a couple seconds and then turned again to his father.  “No Sir.  Hansi had to go home.  He said it was almost getting dark and he had to go in for dinner.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” said the man.

“Why’d you want to know if that’s Hansi out there playing soccer?”

“Nothing, Stephan.  I was just asking…nothing.  Relax, would you?  And stop calling me ‘Sir.’”

The boy looked at his father’s hands for a couple seconds and then moved up to meet his eyes.  The eyes were still dark brown and still set deep into his father’s head, but the prominent brow-ridge seemed less severe as his eye-brows were raised in a gentle and almost inquisitive arch.

“What?  Just call me ‘Dad’ now.  Say ‘Yes Dad,’ not ‘Yes Sir.’  That seems wrong somehow.”

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you something and not get in trouble?”

“Yes…ask or say anything you want.”

The boy just looked at him.

“I’m serious…really…anything…you won’t get in trouble.”

“What happened to you in the wreck?  I know you broke a couple ribs, but what happened…you know…inside your head?  Mom said it went through the front window, right?”

The man looked at his son…intently, gently…and picked a tuft of moss from the ground.  He moved his eyes to the moss and then asked, “What do you mean, ‘What happened in my head?’”

“You’re not like you used to be,” said the boy, looking past his father, but still watching him, trying to sense if he was going too far.  “You’re different.”

“Almost dying in the wreck like that made me think about my life; it made me think about how I was treating people…how I treated you and your mom…and I decided that I needed to be different.”

The boy looked out into the park again.  He didn’t want his father to see the tears that were starting to spill from his eyes.  “Just like that…you ‘decided’ that you needed to be different?”

The man looked down and watched his fingers as they slowly tore the moss apart and let it drop back into the grass.  “I guess so.  When I was laying there in the hospital with my neck in that brace and my face all bandaged-up and tubes sticking out of my lungs, I thought about how lucky I was that my heart was still beating and that I wasn’t hurt as bad as I could have been considering what I had been through.  It almost seemed like I was being given a second chance or something, you know…somehow…maybe…to do things right…if that’s possible.”

The boy turned back and looked toward his father, not meeting his eyes exactly, but looking through him at some point directly behind his head.  “If you could just decide that you needed to be different when you were laying there in the hospital, why couldn’t you have decided a long time ago that you would be different…why didn’t you decide when I was a littler kid that you weren’t going to be so mean…that you could talk to me instead of hitting me, or that I could talk to you like you were just my dad and not some…kind…of…whatever you’ve been?”

“I don’t know, Stephan.  I guess it took me almost dying to realize how much I love you…I don’t know.”

“Oh.  Well, that’s when I figured out that I don’t love you,” said the boy, “when you were in the hospital almost dying.  I always thought I did, or wanted to, maybe.  I thought that if I loved you more you’d be nicer to me, but it didn’t work.  So when Mom told me that you might die, I was hoping you would, because I knew I wouldn’t have to try to love you anymore.  It would be ok that I didn’t…and now you’re not dead and I still don’t love you.”

The man turned his eyes to watch the neighbor drive past in his blue Saab.  He followed the car until it stopped at the water fountain by the corner of the park and then turned down the hill where it disappeared behind the Vivo store on the opposite corner.  Then he turned slightly in the other direction and watched the kids chasing each other and kicking the soccer ball for a few seconds.  Finally, he looked back at his son and said, “Wow…I don’t know what to do with that, Stephan.”

“I don’t either,” said the boy as he reached for one of his army men.

“I guess I’ll have to work on that, won’t I?  Give you a reason to love me?”

The boy pulled a handful of moss and began to gently tear it apart and lay the pieces across his army trucks, camouflaging them against the enemy that was lined-up behind the moss and grass berm that he had built close to the trunk of the nearest tree.  He then absently grabbed a cherry from the ground and slipped it into his mouth.  He bit down on the sweet flesh and then used his tongue to separate the seed as he slowly chewed and swallowed the tiny fruit.

“Stephan?  I said I’ll have to work on that, won’t I?”

“I don’t know.”

The man slowly stood and then leaned over to stretch his legs that had been folded under him while he sat and talked with his son.  He said “Ok,” and then turned to walk back around the corner of the house.  After a couple steps, he turned around and leaned down so he could see his son better under the cherry trees.  “You need to come in now.  The streetlights are coming on and it’s time to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

The man raised his voice a little – “Stephan, I said you need to come in.”

“Yes Sir.”

*****

This is a Favorite re-post from May, 2010.


Forgotten


De-spair

I lay there with sparkling glass all about me.  The sun could blind a living eye with this glaring prism of light that is alive itself.  Concrete is warm as leather-soled shoes stop on the sidewalk across the street.  Cigarette butts, gum wrappers, and spent leaves lay around me.  A paper cup with orange and yellow flowers sealed beneath cracking wax is blown against the curb under his paused foot.  The wing-tip is untied and has a hole in the great toe.  A white sock peeks out, surveying the air.  A lost pebble under the ball of his foot nears him to craziness.  No briefcase to put down before he sits to the curb.  No hat to tamp against gravity before he leans over to remove the stone.  My eyes see him but my brain just lets him be.

The metal taste in my mouth is like a penny hidden under the tongue.  I can’t spit it out.  He looks at me like he’s done something wrong.  Hair flutters in his eye, then mine.  And mine.  Sand from the concrete presses into my cheek as he examines his sock.  His mother doesn’t know where he is.  Mine thinks I’m at work.  Of course, she’s thought the same thing for years, or weeks on end; at day’s end.  Days end.  For that’s where I was.  When I was.  When I was there, the world spun as it does now.  It still spins.  The world spins still; it spins not moving, still.  If you can know something like that, I guess that’s what it was doing, when I was, and doing.  A feather, still.  His old tweed jacket has holes in its holes.  Cigarette burns in the arms with the lining appearing without.

My ears still ring; the blood yet flows through the tiny capillaries near the surface of my skin; it is still warm.  It tingles when a car drives by.  A truck makes it louder.  And, he sits, not knowing what to do.  The wheels on the chair spun for only a few seconds.  They were startled, too.  And the glass, it was whole and unnoticed when it was clean.  Now it’s lost its pane and its absence draws a crowd.  It is scared, fallen to pieces, broken near into sand.  Lost.  He sees the people looking down to the street.  He sees the clouds crawl past the horizon.  The building leans toward him so he rises and looks about.  Not away.  She thinks I’m at work.  He saw me fall silently to the street.  That pain is gone.  That pain has severed the feelings that had been severed so long ago.  Happiness fled itself.  And drawn away.  It screamed as I walked past, “Come here!”  Don’t leave.  Go away.  The grit in the street crunched beneath his foot as the siren’s car approached.  It left whole for another place, its tail following behind.  The tiny hairs picking up the static dust.  The lint and fiber of nonsense.  Nonsence.  Nonsents.  Non-scents.  Non-cents, he went bankrupt.  Fell out of life.  I fell to the street.  He just fell out of life.  And went away.  They are lost.  Do you look around?  Does it sparkle in other places too?

The clouds are lowering a story at a time.  Birds flew past the ledges without second thinking.  They dropped their things in flight and landed in other places.  We’re not the same.  The chair flew out and took me with it.  Anger seized, seized, seized, seased, ceased, teased, teized, seized me.  In a rage the clouds swept me up.  They tossed me higher and crashed me harder than clouds should.  So friendly when viewed from the park grass.  They threaten nobody there.  So soft, like cotton candy – over-used simile.  In the end.

His split finger-nails had been chewed down to the quick.  Dirty fingers housed the nails and brushed the hair out of my face.  The flattened side of my head didn’t feel flat; it didn’t ache either.  I saw ants on the sidewalk, undisturbed they were.  Undisturbed they were before I saw them, too.  I had hidden in the bathroom, sat there so long that my legs had nightmares.  The fan overhead drowned-out the speakers on the wall.  The walls heard the speakers, but they didn’t listen.  They kept on standing there, fastened, undisturbed, too.  As dust falls, it sees its friends lying about, keeping a place for anybody else who might happen to drop in.  They collect, one by one.  Slowly there is a film of their bodies, covering whatever they touch.  Are they happy?  Water washes them away.  They’re weak.  The chair just took me like I was weak too.  I only meant to hurl it at the window; then it grabbed my tight, angry fingers.  White knuckles tensed the blood away.  The weight just took me like I was weak, too.

I smell vinegar from the mustard on his fingers.  There is some yellow, too.  The breeze replaces my hair.  The breeze misplaces my hair.  Our moms ought to get together.  His doesn’t know where he is, mine thinks I’m at work.  I succeeded today.  Now I’ll nev

*****

This is a Favorite re-post from September, 2009.


What kind of day would it have been…?

I wonder what kind of day it would have been if it didn’t start with reading about a five year-old who died in her sleep…if I didn’t have to wonder if it was just a biological failing of her body, given that she was on a feeding-tube and had serious medical issues to begin with…or if maybe the caretaker, parent, mom, or whomever, had used a pillow during the child’s sleep to make sure she didn’t wake again.  The fire department transported her, with a police car following…and then the officer stood-by to relay the status update to his sergeant…so we would know if they needed to roll homicide detectives…just in case.  I wonder what kind of day it would have been if the next notification I received wasn’t that some adult child found their parent dead in their bedroom with their body wedged between the bed and the night-stand…or if another message that I received hadn’t told me about the dead body that the city’s building inspector found when he was making a visit to one of the apartment complexes in town…or that one of the fire department’s truck-crews was on its way to the grocery store to buy their shift’s food for the day and found a dead body laying somewhere…just laying there, out in the freaking middle of the day on a sidewalk or in the greenbelt between the lanes of traffic…or if the dispatcher hadn’t needed to tell me that an officer was assaulted by some guy he had pulled-over for blowing through a school zone….

I wonder what kind of day it would have been if another dispatcher hadn’t told me that there was a “real” unknown-trouble hot call being worked on the central tactical frequency…the caller, of which, had reported that he found a Navigator in the parking lot that had blood all over the driver-side door and steering wheel and seat.  Oh yeah, and about an hour ago he had seen a 50-some year-old white guy walking behind the buildings carrying a bloody bed comforter.  What kind of day would it have been if we didn’t end-up finding that 50-some year-old white guy with seven bullet holes in his chest…and then sent officers to the Navigator’s registered-owner’s house in another city to talk with the man’s wife…to check on her and then ask about her shot husband….  “He left for work a couple hours ago…maybe a little later than usual…yeah, he works around such-and-such an area.”  The officers thanked her for her time and then made some phone calls back to our dispatcher and patrol supervisors.  A little while later, the officers went back to the man’s house and asked his wife if they could come in and take a look around.  “Sure…come on in.”  They found blood and….  What kind of day would it have been, if when the medical center called the woman to come down to identify her husband’s body…it hadn’t taken her two hours to get down there…to learn that her husband had been shot seven times and taken two bullets directly in the heart…and then managed to drive from his home in that other city to his work-place in the middle of our city…what kind of day would it have been?

When a different neighboring city’s dispatchers called us and asked that we check a certain vehicle leaving their city and coming into our city with four or five people inside who didn’t want to be inside, but were being driven against their will out and around and wherever…and we broadcast the information and an officer thought he was behind the vehicle and many more officers arrived to watch and follow and help when and how they could…and somehow that vehicle turned in front of or behind and into an alley or neighborhood and parked in some dark invisible place and we lost them and didn’t know where they could be…but those four or five people had dark skin and said they had been kidnapped…what kind of day would it have been if that hadn’t happened?

Later that afternoon, what kind of day would it have been if we hadn’t come across a drop-house, a den or lair of human coyotes who steal and smuggle and rape and kill and extort and abuse people who trusted them to bring them to a better life across a river and imaginary boundary that exists on maps and in minds…and officers set an inner and outer perimeter to catch all of the fleeing coyotes when they ran…and we caught four bad-guys and rescued four good guys and gals and called ICE to come and get “their” people….

And what kind of day would it have been if a caller hadn’t found that little two year-old wandering the street in his diaper and striped tennis-shoes…hadn’t called us and said “Please come get this baby…yes, I’ll stay here until you get here, I couldn’t just drive by and not stop”…like so many people do sometimes.

What kind of day would it have been if the young man hadn’t called to tell us that his friend was going to kill himself…had a gun and was going to do it…and was going to leave the apartment door unlocked for us…what kind of day would it have been if he hadn’t refused to come out of the apartment when we got there…if he would have just come out on his own…but no, we had to call it a barricade and call-out the dogs and the SWAT guys and restrict the channel so the dispatcher didn’t have to work any other traffic…just listen to me…to us, as we work this mess…all for a guy who wanted to die, but was too chicken or too undecided to do it after telling everyone that he was going to…and we set-up our police camp and command-post outside his door and around the corner and pretended that there was a real boogey-man inside who was a threat to himself and others and we were coming to protect the “others” from him in case he decided not to hurt himself, but them.  What kind of day would it have been if we had packed our shit and just walked and driven away from that guy who didn’t want to come out…?

What kind of day would it have been if the mom or dad or aunt or grown cousin of that little diaper and tennis-shoe clad two year-old had come looking for him so we didn’t have to place him with Child Protective Services…if they had even noticed he was gone?

What kind of day would it have been if that other neighbor hadn’t called us to tell us that a woman was chasing her eight year-old son through the apartment complex holding a knife in one hand and a belt in the other…running and yelling “Get back here, you little shit-head…I’m gonna beat yo ass!”  What kind of day would it have been?  “I don’t think she’s right in the head,” the caller told the 9-1-1 operator.  She had left her one year-old and six year-old kids in the apartment as she ran and chased her older son.  An officer cleared after a bit and asked that we roll the counselor/crisis-team van from the fire department to take care of the other kids.

And what kind of day would it have been if there weren’t constant and insistent messages flashing on my computer screen all fucking day long about police needing to come to this school and that, this hospital and that hospital or this aunt’s house or grandmother’s house or CPS worker’s office to take this report and that report about some loved one or trusted one or some stranger or some assistant coach hitting or bruising or fondling or fucking some child who was just going about their days and lives trying to be a kid over the weekend or last week and he’s still got bruises…and the 16 year-old girl woke-up this morning and she was naked and groggy and it was burning and hurting between her legs and she doesn’t know what happened or how she got where she was and she just called her mom and she called us…and the Spanish-speaking father called us to say that his 14 year-old son was walking home from the store and a truck full of Mexicans had pulled-over and grabbed him into the truck and then stole his cell phone and wallet and had beat him and touched him “down there” and…what kind of day would it have been if another dad hadn’t called to report that he found text-messages on his 17 year-old son’s cell phone talking about how he was having sex with the dad’s 26 year-old girlfriend…what kind of day would it have been?

And those were just some of the things that happened in only eight hours of a single Monday at 9-1-1 and police dispatch…just one shift…in the fifth or sixth largest city in the country….


Despair

  In despair…despair…dispair…despear…deaspear…dispare…disappear…disappare…disappear…dead-spear…die-sphere…dead sphere.

 

I lay there with sparkling glass all about me.  The sun could blind a living eye with this glaring prism of light that is alive itself.  Concrete is warm as leather-soled shoes stop on the sidewalk across the street.  Cigarette butts, gum wrappers, and spent leaves lay around me.  A paper cup with orange and yellow flowers sealed beneath cracking wax is blown against the curb under his paused foot.  The wing-tip is untied and has a hole in the great toe.  A white sock peeks out, surveying the air.  A lost pebble under the ball of his foot nears him to craziness.  No briefcase to put down before he sits to the curb.  No hat to tamp against gravity before he leans over to remove the stone.  My eyes see him but my brain just lets him be.  The metal taste in my mouth is like a penny hidden under the tongue.  I can’t spit it out.  He looks at me like he’s done something wrong.  Hair flutters in his eye, then mine.  And mine.  Sand from the concrete presses into my cheek as he examines his sock.  His mother doesn’t know where he is.  Mine thinks I’m at work.  Of course, she’s thought the same thing for years, or weeks on end; at day’s end.  Days end.  For that’s where I was.  When I was.  When I was there, the world spun as it does now.  It still spins.  The world spins still; it spins not moving, still.  If you can know something like that, I guess that’s what it was doing, when I was, and doing.  A feather, still.  His old tweed jacket has holes in its holes.  Cigarette burns in the arms with the lining appearing without.  My ears still ring; the blood yet flows through the tiny capillaries near the surface of my skin; it is still warm.  It tingles when a car drives by.  A truck makes it louder.  And, he sits, not knowing what to do.  The wheels on the chair spun for only a few seconds.  They were startled, too.  And the glass, it was whole and unnoticed when it was clean.  Now it’s lost its pane and its absence draws a crowd.  It is scared, fallen to pieces, broken near into sand.  Lost.  He sees the people looking down to the street.  He sees the clouds crawl past the horizon.  The building leans toward him so he rises and looks about.  Not away.  She thinks I’m at work.  He saw me fall silently to the street.  That pain is gone.  That pain has severed the feelings that had been severed so long ago.  Happiness fled itself.  And drawn away.  It screamed as I walked past, “Come here!”  Don’t leave.  Go away.  The grit in the street crunched beneath his foot as the siren’s car approached.  It left whole for another place, its tail following behind.  The tiny hairs picking up the static dust.  The lint and fiber of nonsense.  Nonsence.  Nonsents.  Non-scents.  Non-cents, he went bankrupt.  Fell out of life.  I fell to the street.  He just fell out of life.  And went away.  They are lost.  Do you look around?  Does it sparkle in other places too? The clouds are lowering a story at a time.  Birds flew past the ledges without second thinking.  They dropped their things in flight and landed in other places.  We’re not the same.  The chair flew out and took me with it.  Anger seized, seized, seized, seased, ceased, teased, teized, seized me.  In a rage the clouds swept me up.  They tossed me higher and crashed me harder than clouds should.  So friendly when viewed from the park grass.  They threaten nobody there.  So soft, like cotton candy – over-used simile.  In the end.  His split finger-nails had been chewed down to the quick.  Dirty fingers housed the nails and brushed the hair out of my face.  The flattened side of my head didn’t feel flat; it didn’t ache either.  I saw ants on the sidewalk, undisturbed they were.  Undisturbed they were before I saw them, too.  I had hidden in the bathroom, sat there so long that my legs had nightmares.  The fan overhead drowned-out the speakers on the wall.  The walls heard the speakers, but they didn’t listen.  They kept on standing there, fastened, undisturbed, too.  As dust falls, it sees its friends lying about, keeping a place for anybody else who might happen to drop in.  They collect, one by one.  Slowly there is a film of their bodies, covering whatever they touch.  Are they happy?  Water washes them away.  They’re weak.  The chair just took me like I was weak too.  I only meant to hurl it at the window; then it grabbed my tight, angry fingers.  White knuckles tensed the blood away.  The weight just took me like I was weak, too.  I smell vinegar from the mustard on his fingers.  There is some yellow, too.  The breeze replaces my hair.  The breeze misplaces my hair.  Our moms ought to get together.  His doesn’t know where he is, mine thinks I’m at work.  I succeeded today.  Now I’ll nev