Dressed in uniforms and dark suits, they performed their prescribed routines with the display of detachment. Police, firefighters, FBI, and detectives buzzed around like yellow jackets invading a hive. Smells of turpentine and plastic and charred desperation filled the air where a relentless fire, fueled by gasoline and rage, had consumed the family's belongings, their photographs, their instruments, their love. They were thinking aloud and offering conjectures, grateful just to not be alone. The neighbors stood quietly and somberly in groups of three and four. It looked like God had wiped off his paintbrush against the surface of the sky before leaving the scene. Against the melon and dusty rose background there were deep grey fibers from three large paintbrush strokes, extending coarsely from a cornflower blue cloud.
The sunset was unusually spectacular, an embarrassment of brilliance and incongruity. Thursday evening after he did it, I walked past the shameful skeleton of his burned down house. On Dapplegrey I take long walks I think and create and write.
On Dapplegrey I pinch off rosemary leaves and breathe in their sweet scent for as long as it lasts. Children in search of treasures find pennies and marbles and polished rocks. It's where I tote my tiny laptop and curl up on the playscape to type.ĭapplegrey is where girls learn to rollerskate and boys tack playing cards to the spokes of their bicycle wheels. It's where the playground is and I lie on my back on the slide and soak up the sun. Dapplegrey (where he lived) is where I write.
0 kommentar(er)
