Watching Victory Garden on PBS with her, feeding egg shells and coffee grounds to the compost pile, digging and finding earthworms deep in black loam, working it back into recalcitrant clay, yanking the sharp spindly weeds, trying to step on the shovel to get down deep enough to get the root so it couldn’t come back.
This is a girl who could be mistaken for another girl and not as she is, a keeper of shadow and goblin-teeth.
After what feels like hours of waiting, it finally drops anchor and all of the pirates jump over the the hull and swing ropes onto shore. The dancers emerge and guide them up off the beach and in the rough-hewn, thatched-roof cantina, we drink with them and listen to their adventures. Their hungers, their thirsts, their old shanty songs and we take notes. They don’t mind us eavesdropping, not so long as we let them dance with the dancers and drink all the mead.
You should be there. Naturally? I should be there, too. Making something, some salad dressing in a bowl. Easy, but requiring attentiveness, ratios, science, purpose. The fork would scrape in the wooden bowl as I emulsify the oil. It’d be near suppertime, but before that scramble to get everything set on the table. You’d be reading, still, in another world but contented to have your body in this one, unbothered.
The trains are running cargo. They are far off in the distance, but you can hear the Ferdinand in their charging horns riding the ambient…
It will, of course, but crimeny cripsies, I am danging in the never neverland and my eyes are boiled grapes and I am entirely without the ability to breathe through the nose. Still. I had moments, moments of feeling.