August 07, 2008
Alice loves to rise early and plunge her sleep-hot feet into the cold pool of the floor, kick for her slippers and warm the stiff leather with her toes. Their own surfaces like the crackle-dry membranes of a forgotten, sliced orange. Alice goes and puts the kitchen radio on one hair above a whisper, then sits in her chair by the Eastward window, looks out towards the larches, and carefully works Bag Balm into her knuckles, palms, wrists, and still-clicking left elbow, even after all these years, as though someone has tipped a tiny spoon of sugar into the crook.
Afterwards, Alice stands immediately, tightens her robe, clears her throat, then lights a smoke and thinks of Abner. Her smoke lasts seven minutes and enlivens her tongue like a kick wakes a dog, at which point she abruptly stubs the butt with one hand, opens the window with another, and forgets everything but the birds.
She puts a saucer of sunflower seeds out for the stellar jays each morning, even though they're noisy. She sets it onto the greyed-cedar porch rail; a quarter turn in the glassy frost makes it stick. She usually catches a seed in her fingers as she rests the dish, to crack between her teeth as she watches her breath rise white with the sun.
Posted by delire at August 7, 2008 05:39 PM