A grey cap on this morning's
head, the sunrise disguised as a plain scarf around the neck. We stand here like we stood in that picture so many years ago: I stood in front of the fuel oil barrel at the corner of the house on a day so grey, and my mother snapped a grey photo, such a grey and plain photo, so drab and grey and my first day of school. We could get that kind of picture today, if we could find the house and the fuel oil barrel. They have been blown into memory. A subsequent tenant on that farm lit a match in the basement of that house, lit a match and blew the house off its foundation, lit a match and died. We shall not find that house today, no matter how grey and drab the sky.
Perhaps you could say there is some blue sky high overhead. The sun wants to shine through. There is moisture on the windshield, not frost. The pond ripples in the wind. The day is brightening already. It is a warm surprise of a morning, when last evening's wind had an edge to it, as if there were snow in far-off Dakota.
It is not so warm that you want to take off your clothes and run naked, but you could. You could if you had to. If you had a girl friend who wanted to. If you were chasing something I don't think I'll catch this morning. The higher the sun climbs, the bluer the sky wants to be. The land lays fallow all around. You could set your naked rump among cornstalks if you wanted. All this, it makes you ache.
In Ripon, the crossing guard on Watson Street. Every morning must seem the same. The same children on their way to school. The same cars, their drivers on the way to their same jobs. The same book you read, filling time. The same sun in the same sky. The same things you are not, and cannot be. You are a crossing guard, every morning. The same corner.
I like the incantatory quality of the first paragraph.
Posted by: Dave | December 02, 2004 at 08:10 AM
Thanks, Dave. It's kind of a chant, isn't it, conjuring up a long-gone world.
Posted by: Tom Montag | December 03, 2004 at 10:18 PM