Thursday, December 03, 2009
The trees are bare and brown. The snow falls in Manhattan. My mother, Lucy, is put in a nursing home and her brother dies swiftly, in his sleep. He used to be an architect and built houses out of popsicle sticks. The popsicle sticks dry in the sun. Happiness is barren. Happiness is faded, worn, like a pair of blue jeans that needs to be washed. The sun is dried out like a raisin. The ocean is full of water, full of fish. The fish are dry. The fish aren’t dead. My father used to fish in the Atlantic Ocean in a canoe and caught five salmon on the first day. He hated Ernest Hemingway. His face turned red whenever he thought about him. The man broke his spirit. His spirit was broken. The trees are bare and brown. It is autumn. Autumn has come. The snow is falling. The white snowflakes fall to the ground and blanket the world and the world is dark and the moon is light. My mother said she found a field mouse in her closet. I said I didn’t believe her.