...and just a little creepy.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The woman stood in her backyard. She was holding a garden hose as the sun splashed soft light on her through the leaves of the large tree in the center of the yard. The water was not turned on all the way so instead of an angry hurried rush it came out in large soft droplets that sank wetly into the ground. The dirt was gray, it had been a dry summer and the yard had been neglected.
She was sitting in her lawn swing that hot July afternoon and for the first time in a long time, noticed something outside of her own enveloping sorrow. The flowers were wilting, their sad limp leaves were curled up and the flower heads were bent over as if they were begging her mercy. She always attributed human emotions to things, it must have come from growing up watching years of laughing mice, cunning cats and talking apes on tv. She felt guilty if she stepped on one of her daughters stuffed animals, perhaps in some way unknown to us they could actually feel pain.
Being a person much motivated by guilt she uncoiled the garden hose and turned the spigot. It was hard to turn having not been used for months. At first nothing came out of the brass colored metal opening. Then with a noisy spurt, warm discolored water exploded out of the hose. Quickly the flow turned into the clear arctic wetness that she remembered from her childhood. Letting the water run through her fingers she could almost taste when she used to put the end of the hose against her lips and let the water that tasted like icy pennies just fill her mouth until she couldn’t hold it and it burst out in a silvery splash.
The water felt surprisingly good against her hands. Hands that could hold a child and create art but had never liked to dig into the earth. The street was quiet, most families were on vacation or in to supper. She could see six houses from her vantage point but still felt isolated. There were no children playing, just the far off sound of a dog barking and the further distant sound of a police siren.
She dragged and pulled the reluctant hose over the lawn to the flower bed and started to water the dying plants. The ground was so dry that the water just ran off it’s hard surface in small, sandy streams. Then it started to absorb the water and changed from dusty gray to a deep moist black. She could smell the change in the ground, inhaling the fresh earthy fragrance. She keep watering the plants, moving slowly around the yard, tending to each rose bush and wildflower he had planted for her.
It wasn’t until she brushed a strand of hair off of her face that she realized she was crying, and had been for some time. She tasted salt on her lips and her eyes were aching. Using the side of her hand she wiped off the tears and bent to turn the hose off. She gently placed the nozzle down on the ground, he always hated when the children would drop it and bend the metal nozzle. The metal flower shaped handle was cold in the palm of her hand, she twisted and heard a squeak as she shut the water off. He must have heard that same squeak thousands of times over the years, he was the gardener, a green thumb they said, she preferred to think it was magic.
Opening up the screen she paused with one hand holding the metal edge of the door and glanced back over her shoulder at the yard. She looked at the flowers, hoping, even though she knew it was too soon to see any change. She thought that maybe, just maybe, they might survive.
She was sitting in her lawn swing that hot July afternoon and for the first time in a long time, noticed something outside of her own enveloping sorrow. The flowers were wilting, their sad limp leaves were curled up and the flower heads were bent over as if they were begging her mercy. She always attributed human emotions to things, it must have come from growing up watching years of laughing mice, cunning cats and talking apes on tv. She felt guilty if she stepped on one of her daughters stuffed animals, perhaps in some way unknown to us they could actually feel pain.
Being a person much motivated by guilt she uncoiled the garden hose and turned the spigot. It was hard to turn having not been used for months. At first nothing came out of the brass colored metal opening. Then with a noisy spurt, warm discolored water exploded out of the hose. Quickly the flow turned into the clear arctic wetness that she remembered from her childhood. Letting the water run through her fingers she could almost taste when she used to put the end of the hose against her lips and let the water that tasted like icy pennies just fill her mouth until she couldn’t hold it and it burst out in a silvery splash.
The water felt surprisingly good against her hands. Hands that could hold a child and create art but had never liked to dig into the earth. The street was quiet, most families were on vacation or in to supper. She could see six houses from her vantage point but still felt isolated. There were no children playing, just the far off sound of a dog barking and the further distant sound of a police siren.
She dragged and pulled the reluctant hose over the lawn to the flower bed and started to water the dying plants. The ground was so dry that the water just ran off it’s hard surface in small, sandy streams. Then it started to absorb the water and changed from dusty gray to a deep moist black. She could smell the change in the ground, inhaling the fresh earthy fragrance. She keep watering the plants, moving slowly around the yard, tending to each rose bush and wildflower he had planted for her.
It wasn’t until she brushed a strand of hair off of her face that she realized she was crying, and had been for some time. She tasted salt on her lips and her eyes were aching. Using the side of her hand she wiped off the tears and bent to turn the hose off. She gently placed the nozzle down on the ground, he always hated when the children would drop it and bend the metal nozzle. The metal flower shaped handle was cold in the palm of her hand, she twisted and heard a squeak as she shut the water off. He must have heard that same squeak thousands of times over the years, he was the gardener, a green thumb they said, she preferred to think it was magic.
Opening up the screen she paused with one hand holding the metal edge of the door and glanced back over her shoulder at the yard. She looked at the flowers, hoping, even though she knew it was too soon to see any change. She thought that maybe, just maybe, they might survive.
Things that still scare me
*for some reason I always imagine the worst. Perhaps if I think up everything that could happen I will be able to prevent it if it really does. Maybe the boyscouts were right in always being prepared. My shrink said "what is the worst that could possibly happen," well this was. And I was ready. *
All I could see were those absurd neon green glitter balls she insisted on using on her ponytail.
I had to look twice for her, she wasn't hanging on the side of the pool with the other kids in her swim class. I kept my panic in control and looked again. She was standing under the water, just floating there, strands of her ponytail dancing with the pool current. I watched to see if she would just pop up, perhaps she had just let go and I didn't want to overreact. She didn't. The two teenage swim teachers were across to the other side of the pool with two other students, noticing nothing, the lifeguard didn't see.
I stood up and couldn't make a sound. Finally through my panic I screamed the only thing I could think of, her name. JESSICA! No one looked up, as I was running to the side of the pool I screamed JESSICA again and this time the sound of my raw terror echoed off the walls, all the parents were looking, the pool became silent, the gritty tiles felt rough on my bare feet, and my daughter was drowning. The teachers finally figured out what had happened but by that time I was pulling her out the water. She was choking and coughing. Pulling her wet body close to me I could see that she was alright but it had been very close.
I grabbed her towel wrapped it around her tightly and directed my anger and fear towards the teacher whom I had trusted with my daughters life. Yelling I said, "What were you doing? Who was watching? She almost drowned!" The two teachers looked up at me from the pool, mouths agape like freshly caught fish gasping on the deck of a boat. The only they could think of to say "Well we have a lifeguard." I guess in their mind this absolved them of all responsibilty. The lifeguard didn't even come over to check if my daughter was ok.
As we were walking out one of the teachers said "I'm sorry". From the time we are little children our parents taught us that saying sorry makes everything alright. The was no sorry on earth that would make this better. The problem is the teacher was too young to know this, only pain and loss would teach her.
In the locker room I couldn't even get my daughter dressed, all I could do was hold her cold damp precious little body against me. My shirt was soaked but my daughter was safe. She clung to me and when I tried to put her from me, she reached her arms around my neck and with both hands grabbed onto my long ponytail. She was four but I still carried her to the car. I put her in her carseat in her suit and we went home.
Sometimes I will be driving or working and the image of her silly ponytail holder under the water appears in my mind with her hair swirling gently just under the surface.
All I could see were those absurd neon green glitter balls she insisted on using on her ponytail.
I had to look twice for her, she wasn't hanging on the side of the pool with the other kids in her swim class. I kept my panic in control and looked again. She was standing under the water, just floating there, strands of her ponytail dancing with the pool current. I watched to see if she would just pop up, perhaps she had just let go and I didn't want to overreact. She didn't. The two teenage swim teachers were across to the other side of the pool with two other students, noticing nothing, the lifeguard didn't see.
I stood up and couldn't make a sound. Finally through my panic I screamed the only thing I could think of, her name. JESSICA! No one looked up, as I was running to the side of the pool I screamed JESSICA again and this time the sound of my raw terror echoed off the walls, all the parents were looking, the pool became silent, the gritty tiles felt rough on my bare feet, and my daughter was drowning. The teachers finally figured out what had happened but by that time I was pulling her out the water. She was choking and coughing. Pulling her wet body close to me I could see that she was alright but it had been very close.
I grabbed her towel wrapped it around her tightly and directed my anger and fear towards the teacher whom I had trusted with my daughters life. Yelling I said, "What were you doing? Who was watching? She almost drowned!" The two teachers looked up at me from the pool, mouths agape like freshly caught fish gasping on the deck of a boat. The only they could think of to say "Well we have a lifeguard." I guess in their mind this absolved them of all responsibilty. The lifeguard didn't even come over to check if my daughter was ok.
As we were walking out one of the teachers said "I'm sorry". From the time we are little children our parents taught us that saying sorry makes everything alright. The was no sorry on earth that would make this better. The problem is the teacher was too young to know this, only pain and loss would teach her.
In the locker room I couldn't even get my daughter dressed, all I could do was hold her cold damp precious little body against me. My shirt was soaked but my daughter was safe. She clung to me and when I tried to put her from me, she reached her arms around my neck and with both hands grabbed onto my long ponytail. She was four but I still carried her to the car. I put her in her carseat in her suit and we went home.
Sometimes I will be driving or working and the image of her silly ponytail holder under the water appears in my mind with her hair swirling gently just under the surface.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Live Action Super Mario Bros
Is that an Obama reference I see? Watch closely.
The part where Mario grows is full of win.
The part where Mario grows is full of win.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
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