now I will tell you a story

Thursday, March 22, 2012

I had, as we know, been working on my sleep (which is to say, on getting some) but sometimes schedules trump your health.  And so this week I have been back to my old tricks, hovering over this computer at all the odd hours, getting more behind with each passing tock.

But today (it seems like a century ago) began in slightly different fashion.  It was early, very.  It was a foggy stew out there—wafting efflorescence—and utterly dark, save for the headlights that had pulled up outside my house.  Wait, I thought, in my groggy state.  A car? Outside? At this hour?  I opened my door to investigate.  A man up near the house went flying.  In my confused dumbness, I called out, What are you doing?  In his confused state, he answered: Looking for scraps.  His voice was Spanish.  His truck screeched away.  I watched him run the stop sign.

All day long, as I have conducted interview after interview, written story after story, taken more than a passing peek at our lovely Teen Day Writing entries, I have thought about this man.  Was I in danger?  Was he?  What happens if he returns?  Should I stay in my little box of an office all night long tonight, keeping watch?  Would that matter?

Late in the day, still the feeling of night on my skin, the weirdness of the exchange in my heart, I went outside to take a walk.  Outside, in the world, I discovered, everything is white and yellow, pink.  It is magnolia trees that bloomed too soon and are shaking their tresses to the ground.


Lilian Nattel said...

How strange--I hope that you're feeling okay now. I noticed today magnolia buds are out and fat.

KFP said...

Beth: He might have been looking for scrap, singular. i.e., scrap metal. To sell to make some money.

Serena said...

ah that's interesting...scraps of what I wonder?!

Scraps of metal to sell to the scrap yard to feed his family perhaps?

Becca said...

What an odd and disturbing encounter.

And yes, the magnolia in my mother's yard is in full bloom..much too soon.

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