uneasy about friendship

We start and stop in similar places. A struggling plant on the windowsill. A willow tree carved onto a gravestone dated from sometime in the 1700's. I trace a circle on your back as you sleep and this is the most connected we'll be, or maybe the least. Incidentally, I cannot be sure which is which. Or if my finger even circled back and connected to where it started.

The ghost cries from somewhere deep in the framework of the house. Hollow and mechanical, you think he's just lonely. I think he's yearning for someone to feel something inside this house other than sadness, or even that he wants the people inside his home to be close, as a way to replace or displace the things he cannot be or feel. Living vicariously, so to speak.

Replacing...?

It is a common thought of mine. Replacements and placeholders. Perhaps it's not such a terrible thing to be. Perhaps rank of importance is not as important as being important.

I take the dog for long walks while you are away. I think about the monument to Hannah Dustin in the center of town, and what she had to do to receive that (now dubious) honor. Ten Abenakis fell under her hatchet. I also think about her sister, who was hanged for infanticide, and how they are buried next to each other in the cemetery across town. Fame and infamy laying down together.

Some nights when you walk with me, I think about handing you the dog's leash and hurling myself headfirst over the ridge and into the stagnant pond near the traintracks. Other times, I think about pushing you hard against a tree and kissing you. Or punching you. Or both.

I consider the consequences of these things, similar to scalping Indians and killing newborns, as I walk back into the house and see you at the kitchen table, beer in hand and another, uncapped on the table waiting for me.

You say hello and I believe you.




with love and squalor,
ekw