The city looked washed and clean in the morning sun and the trees were in
full foliage. Some of the greenery looked too green—violently verdant after
the rain, as if transported to some Amazonian forest from the grim dirt of
Metropolis.
She felt as if she too had been transported into a new world, where everything was unfamiliar and new, had to be remembered and recognized again in the harsh light of day. As if the usual habit of existence had been wiped away by the storm and she must negotiate her place in the world again...
This strange distance, like waking from a dream, also gave her a new perspective. Though it was unsettling, she felt that after a long, long time she could see the problem. Beyond the day-to-day business of living, she could see what was wrong, and how she could change it. The pavement with its geometric slabs in unerringly straight lines, told her that she that her destination was this way. It was time to claim her life back. If it didn't come easily, she would wrest it back. After all, this was life -- there really wasn't anything further left to lose. What had she been so afraid of?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The barn was just the same. With its ambient smell of animals, hay, earth, old wood, ropes and paint. The slight undertone of grease, the underlying tang of manure that one detected in an olfactory raiding party and then tried to make its recognizable whiff get lost in the general smell of the barn, of home, of solicitude and concern. Of losses made tangible with every creak of weathered wood, of loneliness driven home with every sunset watched together. Of jealousy made solid and permeating the air with the crackling ozone of unease. Let me in, Clark! Let me in, wails a lost soul outside. But Clark remains immune, on his Parnassus of family and inclusive unconcern for the outsiders.
Children who go home to Christmas trees full of store bought decorations, to forgotten birthdays and uneasy silences of bare tolerance, of Christian charity... Of kindnesses and soft-stepping unobtrusiveness, of painful and binding agreeableness that never wants to impose, that may never give into willful tantrums...
'Clark? Is that you?'
'Mom?'
Martha climbed the creaky steps, her face creased in joy.
'Oh! Clark, we've been waiting for your phone call, you didn't come for dinner yesterday. Are you Ok? You look tired.
'I'm alright, mom. Really.' Clarks voice was muffled through the rough cotton shoulder of Martha's shirt.
'Well, Jonathan certainly will be happy to see you. He wants to re-fence Barnaby's field. He could do with a hand. Are you staying long?'
Martha chatted happily as she descended the steps and made her way out into the brilliant sunshine of the yard. Clark followed slowly after, grinning at the blue sky.
'I never want to leave, mom.' he whispered to the chickens pecking in the dirt.
She felt as if she too had been transported into a new world, where everything was unfamiliar and new, had to be remembered and recognized again in the harsh light of day. As if the usual habit of existence had been wiped away by the storm and she must negotiate her place in the world again...
This strange distance, like waking from a dream, also gave her a new perspective. Though it was unsettling, she felt that after a long, long time she could see the problem. Beyond the day-to-day business of living, she could see what was wrong, and how she could change it. The pavement with its geometric slabs in unerringly straight lines, told her that she that her destination was this way. It was time to claim her life back. If it didn't come easily, she would wrest it back. After all, this was life -- there really wasn't anything further left to lose. What had she been so afraid of?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The barn was just the same. With its ambient smell of animals, hay, earth, old wood, ropes and paint. The slight undertone of grease, the underlying tang of manure that one detected in an olfactory raiding party and then tried to make its recognizable whiff get lost in the general smell of the barn, of home, of solicitude and concern. Of losses made tangible with every creak of weathered wood, of loneliness driven home with every sunset watched together. Of jealousy made solid and permeating the air with the crackling ozone of unease. Let me in, Clark! Let me in, wails a lost soul outside. But Clark remains immune, on his Parnassus of family and inclusive unconcern for the outsiders.
Children who go home to Christmas trees full of store bought decorations, to forgotten birthdays and uneasy silences of bare tolerance, of Christian charity... Of kindnesses and soft-stepping unobtrusiveness, of painful and binding agreeableness that never wants to impose, that may never give into willful tantrums...
'Clark? Is that you?'
'Mom?'
Martha climbed the creaky steps, her face creased in joy.
'Oh! Clark, we've been waiting for your phone call, you didn't come for dinner yesterday. Are you Ok? You look tired.
'I'm alright, mom. Really.' Clarks voice was muffled through the rough cotton shoulder of Martha's shirt.
'Well, Jonathan certainly will be happy to see you. He wants to re-fence Barnaby's field. He could do with a hand. Are you staying long?'
Martha chatted happily as she descended the steps and made her way out into the brilliant sunshine of the yard. Clark followed slowly after, grinning at the blue sky.
'I never want to leave, mom.' he whispered to the chickens pecking in the dirt.