The metal of the table bites my toes, but there’s no good place to put them. The glass of tea sweats, waiting for me to drink it. I haven’t had a thought for probably fifteen minutes. I just sit and look at whatever asks to be looked at. Each day that passes, somewhere around 6 pm, I tell myself I won’t let another day pass like the one I just had. I think about the last five years, the last ten, and then the last twenty. It only goes faster, the old folks say.
The hawks circle the skies; I count them. I remember when my grandmother used to count hawks on the highway. I wonder if hawk counting is something that just happens, something that old folks start to do. The hawks aren’t worried about the days, weeks, months, or hours. They make their rounds, look for food, and then do it all again the next day. Or so I suppose they do. Maybe they get together in their nests, if they even have nests, and mull over the passage of time as the sun goes down the way I do. Maybe they see me sitting on my porch and think how nice it would be to have no concerns in their heads. To look at the same trees for fifteen minutes without a thought. Blissfully ignorant of the existential cries of the world. Maybe that’s what the hawks really do.
I scrape a cobweb off the leg of the table with my toe. You can live, but not here. I tell the spiders hiding somewhere nearby. I assume they are nearby because no one really goes that far from their homes. Not when you’re tiny like a spider and care nothing about culture or cities, or art or experiences. The spiders just make their homes, cozying up in them and waiting for their food to come. Homes that are also traps they set themselves, not much different from mine. Maybe they have inner worlds warring too. There’s more time to think when you don’t have to worry about finding food, when all you do is wait for it to wander in your door. Maybe they watch me through the window at night, curled up with my books. Maybe they wish they had something to do too while they wait for their food.
I reach for my tea; the cold wetness from the glass coats the inside of my fingers. I take a sip and put it back down. I wipe my hand on my leg; it slips against my skin. The metal table has made lines across the bottom of my feet. I cross my legs and let my toes touch the porch. Leaning on the chair arm, I rub my temple in circles, but I don’t really have a reason to. I don’t have a headache, and I don’t feel tense. Maybe I’m just unwinding my thoughts. Thoughts I didn’t have fifteen minutes ago.
A caterpillar inches by, curving around a piece of a sweetgum ball. Little legs moving fast to get out of the main thoroughfare and set to work on whatever it has in mind. I wonder if the caterpillars are always in a hurry or if they just move with purpose. I suppose everyone moves with some purpose when they decide to move. These guys move with furious purpose. Their little brains are firing, carrying them where they think they should go. I’m pretty sure they eat leaves, and maybe apples. I scan my potted plants and wonder if they are safe. Some caterpillars turn into butterflies, or maybe all of them do. If they only have so many days to prep for their transformation, that seems like a good reason to hurry. He, or she, probably scowls as they pass me. Taking my numbered days for granted.
I toss the tea from my glass out into the yard and turn toward the house. The sun has started to set; the lights through the windows calling me in like a spider web. I sweep the trees one more time and scan the porch. All is quiet. I turn the knob, and the door squeaks as I step inside. Twisting the lock, I go to the sink and place my glass down inside it. I grab the counter on each side of the sink and feel the tears start their journey through my body. If they drip, the sink will catch them. Just a few seconds. This will pass.
Squeezing my eyes tight, wringing out the leftover tears, I wipe my eyes and turn to face the room. The brown kitchen table holds a basket of grapes and a stack of books on writing. The blanket I take outside to drape over the metal chair isn’t in its usual spot. I forgot it outside. I flip the switch to turn on the porch light, twist the lock, and step back out onto the porch.
The lantern light by the back door welcomes me back. The mat under my feet feels prickly. I wish I had picked something softer. The crickets and lightning bugs have started their symphony and light show. I pick up my blanket, hug it to my chest, and watch nature perform. Two species, one that I can see and the other I hear, both calling out and communicating. Using their voices or form of voice. I can’t remember the last time I used my voice. Not with a human, anyway. I speak to the flowers and encourage them during their blooms, but now that I think about it, I do more apologizing to bugs than anything.
**This is an excerpt from an unfinished story I’ve been working on.**
