Seamstress for the Band

The night I finally realized she had fallen out of love with me, I went outside and lay down in our vegetable garden. We were so close to winter then; the tomato plants only an afterthought of green. The remains of watermelon vine scraped at my arms, prickled as they were from the cold and from the humiliation I felt from having realized something vitally important, months too late to do anything about it. I touched my lips, tongue to the mineral earth. Remembered the chemical fertilizer we had scattered over this plot like children throwing impatient handfuls of breadcrumbs at pigeons, just six or seven quick months before. We were still laughing then. She would grab the hose and spray my sunburned back, right between the shoulder blades, every time I turned towards the garden and away from her. “Training,” she would say, curling her adorable mouth beneath sunglasses that hid half of her face, “you should know better than to ever take your eyes off me.” The sting from the sharp water blast should have been a warning. All those Saturdays when I happily picked our dinner alone should have been a warning. The day she wouldn’t eat the cucumbers. I should have noticed then; she had always loved baby cucumbers soaked in vinegar and salt. But then, we had plans. I could always shake her out of her slumps by reminding her of all the trips we would be taking soon. To Okinawa in the spring, where I would rattle Japanese Cherry limbs until blossoms snowed down on her hair. To the Grand Canyon, so we would know how it feels to be small again. There were a million places we were going to see, thousands of tastes waiting for us like a paintbox of flavors. She would get so excited. Making plans and itineraries and researching Italian history and learning conversational Portuguese. So cute that I never bothered to remind her I was agoraphobic. But, eventually she would remember on her own, slumping her shoulders again, covering her eyes with big-brimmed hats, books she tried reading, eventually just using the span of her fingers to avoid meeting my eyes. I had said to her earlier that day, “Soon, so soon, we’re gonna take a trip to the moon. You and me, and our garden makes three…” She hadn’t laughed. In the darkness, I reached up and rubbed my hands over the dry dirt beard I had given myself, muddy at the tip of my nose and the corners of my mouth. Remembered the chemical fertilizer, and spit. I looked as far down the country road as I could see from my seated place there in our dead garden. Wondered who would help me eat the pyramids of canned squash, okra, in the pantry.

mp3: Alex Clare – Caroline



I don’t have the words for how much I love you, Alex Clare. Over and over, your songs enter me, get me excited about music again. Consider me crushed.

posted by rikki.