Wednesday, March 23, 2005
I paged you at the airport, and you called me
from inside the toilet next to Gate B3. Your story
about the cobalt tiles and the felt-pen circles somebody
drew along the grouting reminded me to buy something
for your sister. The ginseng and lavender pot-pourri baby
bath-set was on special in the duty free. We decided
to meet later that day in the park after your trip.
At the sinkhole. I'd forgotten to lay out the wallpaper
samplers for John, so I was going to be late. It was a hot day,
a summer storm was forecasted and the newspapers licked
clammily off the couch. That's when I spotted the article:
The Limestone Prisons used by Florida's Seminole Indians. That's
where you lost your sunglasses. It must be ten years now. Beneath the oak
on the Hollywood reservation. The carbonate rock, the runny walls, the slow
sizzling calcium nibs. Just under our feet at the park, I told you,
the same thing was happening. Your face dropped. "Just like my soufflés?"
The whole next day was a frothy heat. But Friday was a tornado. A few trees
fell on cars, and branches with still-green leaves lay about the drive-way.
The kids brought a couple out the back, and they added a menthol tang
to the barbecue on Sunday. Then you told me about your trip.
No bonus this quarter, but they were hiring for the new office. "Growth
is never performance ..." - something deep after a few beers.