black fingers

2 06 2011

the little hassles of the everyday conjure black moods like careless magic spilled on the floor by a harried cook: online banking lockouts because i can’t remember the completely random password they made me invent the last time their logarithms said i had to change the last one, run-arounds from the credit card company, forms that have to be sent today that the scanner won’t read properly, a delayed call-back from the mechanics at the tire shop, all dramas that cause flares of cursing and claustrophobic fury in moments and yet somehow evaporate by the end of the day. the tasks-to-be-completed list grows faster than tasks can be checked off. and only far more rarely than i’d like are the tasks themselves satisfying enough to make participation more rewarding than completion or the task itself more valuable than its simple absence from the list.

Relocated sugar babies showing off their first real watermelon leaves.

digging in the dirt, however, is always rewarding, whether it’s done because the wind-storm has knocked over another pot and scattered roots and soil across the porch, because the tiny watermelon seedlings needed to be replanted somewhere they could grow beyond the boundaries of their 2-inch plastic pots, or because i decided the collection wouldn’t be complete without chive-seeds buried in the outgrown pots gathering dust and pollen in the porch-rail’s lees. and coming back inside with ten black fingers, usually wrapped around the odds-and-ends of a gritty spoon and the lip of a jug or juice-jar half-full of water, always feels like what’s clinging to my hands is pure sunlight inside a black disguise.




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