Three Dispatches from Heavy Mulching
Calico
Sixteen years old and crippled with arthritis, she couldn’t have weighed more than a half gallon of milk. Her cloudy eyes oozed a milky fluid. We talked about putting her down, but if you scratched her behind the ear, she would purr until she couldn’t catch a breath. And she’d still hobble over to the dish for her kibbles.
This morning, I found her on her pillow, cold and empty, lighter than a bird. My wife wrapped her in a scrap of wool tartan, and I went to dig a grave between the lilacs. My first shovel of earth came up full of new potatoes, the size of eggs.
I know nothing about the transmigration of souls, but I made potato salad for supper, and we talked about what kind of bird a cat might become.
Drip
The nurse swabs antiseptic on my knee. It smells like spinach with lime. My stomach rumbles. “Hungry are we?” she asks. I can’t see her mouth behind the mask, so I stare right into her eyes, and she stares back.
The first time they reamed out this knee, I watched it on the video screen. The bone was whiter than teeth. There was hardly any blood. The surgeon told us his favorite marinade for grilled snapper—lemon, paprika, and ginger—while his tiny pneumatic scissors trimmed my meniscus.
Now the anesthesiologist slides an IV needle into my arm. “What’ll it be this time—the epidural or the full monte?” Suddenly I remember—I left the drip irrigation running in the garden. Shit. Too late to call home. If the potatoes get scab, I’ll kick myself.
Wild Geese
I’m picking beans when the geese fly over, Blue Lake pole beans I figure to blanch and freeze. Maybe pickle some dilly beans. And there will be more beans to give to the neighbors, forcibly if necessary.
The geese come over so low I can hear their wings creak, can see their tail feathers making fine adjustments. They slip-stream along so gracefully, riding on each other’s wind, surfing the sky. Maybe after the harvest I’ll head south. Somebody told me Puerto Vallarta is nice. I’d be happy with a cheap room. Rice and beans for every meal. Swim a little, lay on the beach.
Who are you kidding, Charles? You don’t like to leave home in the winter. Spring, fall, or summer either. True. But I do love to watch those wild geese fly over, feel these impertinent desires glide through me. Then get back to work.
Charles Goodrich ©2007 |
