Dust and Garbage

A light of sorts. Soft as the dust that glides along the gentle Texas breeze between the crooked slats and onto the bare floor. Outside the sun is already high in the sky (what time is it?) and it seems to me the heat comes right off out the land like corn or bushfire. A wasp buzzing in a spiders web above my head and my head feeling a little dry, like yesterday’s bread still out here on the table (why had I brought it out here?). The land rolls out from under the porch and it’s one of those day’s when you can feel the earth turnin’, or so it seems to me. I reach for the glass by my chair (did she drink from this cup?). The night before seems far away, indistinct like the bushes down the way. Sorta merging together like the bushes. The warmth of her gone now, gone from this house for good. I feel the water on my tongue and see through the glass , distorted as if in one of those mirrors down at the circus, her locket. Strange, she said she never removed it except for bathing and I’d laughed, sort of embarrassed like, and said something like “oh” and turned away.
I’ve never been much of a talker, but I guess you could tell that, me living out here with just the creaking and the dripping and the buzzing for company. It’s nice to have her here.
The flies buzz about the garbage bags, already startin’ to reek in the noon sun (is it noon already?). The wasp has stopped buzzing so I look to see if the spider’s here. It starts again so I sit back down. He’ll be here soon enough, I think. Or not. Sitting down, my foot, bare since the evening, touches something cold. The blade seems to grin at me in the heavy sunlight (what did I bring the saw out here for?). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t shy from manual work, oh no. But I...
My thoughts are interrupted by the smell, clearer now I stand. A haze of scent seeming to paint the land, like that time I kept the rat in my closet and came back and ma said “what’s that smell?”. Turns out I’d forgot about it before we left for Austin. I remember it all smelling and ma saying “oh don’t look at it” and I’d looked away.
I look back to my locket (what’s inside?) I wonder what’s inside. I’m trying to open it but it’s hard. I bite my nails, see, so there’s not that much of them left. (Look, here, you try). Even my fingertips I bite a bit so they get all bloody like they are now, see? I toss it aside in frustration. That damned buzzing (can you still here it?) When will the spider come and take her away? The scratches on my cheeks sting as I wipe the sweat with a scrap of cloth. The lace irritates my wounds and I wince. See how the sweat mixes with the dried blood, sort of swelling like an ink blot?
Is it still buzzing? Or is that the flies? (the countless, senseless flies that swarm around her) is it just my head? I gaze at the patch on the cloth. Blood and sweat, tears all gone. I’d said “don’t cry, you’ll give yourself a headache” but oh how she cried, do you remember? Damn near thought I’d start too if she didn’t can it. I’m like that, see, very sensitive to people’s feelings. Like that rat, I’d see him looking all small and thin and scared and I’d say “I’m here” I’d say “it’s ok, I’m here!”
Buzzing, this damn buzzing. It would be a shame for her to see all this mess. The broken bottle (I’m not normally a messy person you know) the toolbox open (I’m normally pretty tidy, only...) the tools, all shiny and clean across the dusty planks like piano keys. Had I opened it? It seems like last night is distant. No, not distant. Standing behind me so I’ll turn and say “one o’clock” (is it that time already?) and it’s closer, like that game children play. No laughter here now (did I laugh last night, do you remember?)
I go to light my cigarette and open the box of matches and there’s none left. Was that last night? Closer now, do I remember? I’d asked her if she had a lighter, polite like, gentle, but she’d just kept shaking and stayed quiet. Even that silence, thick as a wall, even that was easier than this confounded buzzing. Where’s that useless spider? It’s like the house is some machine, a buzz saw or a drill. Buzzing.
I reach for my shirt from the floor but it’s sticky. Must be a hole in the garbage bags. It happens, you know, if you catch a nail or a bit of rough wood as you carry it out through the porch. Heavy too, more than you’d think.
Then I see it shimmering, like a stream through the dust, shimmering. A single strand of her hair, caught on a splinter no doubt. A single strand and... she’s still here. I know she’s still here as that strand reaches away from me. Probably wants to get away from this terrible buzzing. Where’s that spider?
She’s still here, I know it (why didn’t you tell me, did you know?). I know from the strand of hair which moves away from me. I turn, dazed, frantic. The garbage bags, with their insect entourage, seem to be alive, humming with some hidden life. She’s still here. I grab at a knife (what is that doing here?) and desperately tear at the bag then, dropping it, search inside. I feel her but she is not there (do you see her? I can’t see through this buzzing and the heat). The heat and the sticky rank. They join the buzzing (where is that spider?) and the flies who coat my arms like pudding mix. Like that rash I got that Christmas (do you remember?) in bed for two days right over Christmas day. She is not here. I tear at another bag, (she seems to still be here, you can tell from that shimmering strand) I tear at it with my bloody fingertips. It opens in parts and I feel the dripping on my arms. I go to wipe my face but can’t find the cloth. There it is (why didn’t you pass it? You’re right there) on the table (you should have passed it) on the table by the glass and the bottle and the file (why did I bring that out here? Was that you, did you take it from the toolbox?) and I wipe and I feel her smell on my face (is it pink now?)
Was it hers? I drop it and tear at the ragged, bleeding sacks “where are you?” I cry to her “where are you?” Maybe the spider will come now. Maybe he’s here, the buzzing has gone now (do you still here it?) though my arms are thick with flies. When will he get here and take her away? Has he left us alone here? (leave me now). Has he left us alone with the smell wrapped around (leave me now). I hold her. I hold her to me as the Texan sun stares down at our crumples bodies. “I’m here” I say. “It’s ok, I’m here”.