Telling: Streams & Logs



8:15 am. Thursday.

I go out as I said I would, as I have done, as I will do. I fall into the momentum of the way, its dips and rises, the green tunnels and gravely walks. The squint-eyed man stops his mower for me to pass between his smile and the smell of fresh cuttings. I do not care one bit about the roses. In the Brown street hollow the smokers have multiplied, their voices ringing out, slow stroll in pink pajamas, one neighbor to another, giving gifts. I am intruding, my huffing breath, my hurry. I keep my eyes down. "Alright," he says, "I'll come by later. Will you be home?" "Most likely I'll be right there on the porch," she says. "Alright," he says, "I'll come by later." I want only to be home.


At the last corner a beautiful man in a gleaming blue car calls me by the name of my son. "Ms Tucker?" He asks. And I answer, yes, Who are you? The man grown from the small restless child we invited in so many years before and handed a paint brush to. His astonishment at this space, this dedication, this activity. Grown into such beauty himself now, bare armed and dark bearded, the father of two, a working man. He asks after my boys, my husband. And so. I thank him for greeting me. I wish him well. I step past my rampant flowers. I am home.