3 minute read
Geography Heals All (fiction). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kat Clark
GEOGRAPHY HEALS ALL
Django by Patrick Sibilia © 2014
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I
wasn ’t going to think about it today. I wasn ’t going to talk about it today. I wasn ’t going to look at myself in the mirror or touch that place on my neck or sit on that side of the mattress.
What was it that he ’d said, sitting there?
I wasn ’t going to think about it.
I focused on a camera: a dark box, with light coming in through a pinhole. And on the opposite wall, an image from the world develops, inverted and reversed. So if I stand on my head and look behind me, there ’ s the world, but in front of me there ’ s only a pinhole. And maybe if I walked towards the hole, I’d be able to see outside the box — but it’ s so hard to walk on your hands.
I tripped on the curb. There was slush everywhere.
East of us on Hazel, a man dragged a boy behind him. Little boots knocked together as the big hand yanked him forward. He could have been a hand truck or a suitcase, skidding across concrete. The pair stopped abruptly under a snowcovered tree.
I saw the man ’ s thick shoulders, his brown work boots. I waited to witness whatever discipline was coming.
And then I heard the man say gently, “Stand right there. ”
The boy dropped his father ’ s hand and stepped under the branches. The sun was fading behind me. They were two black faces in the half-dark, lit by half a sunset.
Then the man took the top of the tree in both hands and shook it softly. The boy jumped and danced, laughing in the falling white.
“I told you it would snow!”
The son reached out two puffy coated arms, two too-big mittens. A little baby Michelin Man. They didn ’t see me
AllisonAlsup
Allison is the winner of the 2010 Marguerite McGlinn Prize for Fiction..
watching them. Murray stood patiently at the corner, watching This is why I’d make it clear a bit earlier who Murray is me. A cloud withdrew from the sky.
We passed a couple arguing about the importance of organic apples.
Two streets further, there were giggles in the darkness. A cat posed stiffly in the middle of the road. Question— would the dog react to this? And would this be a good point to let us know there is a dog? Maybe even earlier, when narrator and dog are walking through the slush? I heard the sound of a toy car scraping towards us: stop, go, stop, go. It jerked and bumped along the night sidewalk, its tiny driver struggling to steer. The indignant grunt of a growing boy, the defeated squeak of plastic wheels. Then the shadows of two girls ran in front of the car, and from inside it came the yelp of a cheated little brother: “HEY!”
“Can we pet your dog?” The shadows asked me. They swept their hands across his spine.
The little brother stepped out of his red and yellow coupe and hoisted up his snow pants. His road rage subsided as he drunkenly toddled towards us.
“What’ s his name?” lisped the boy. I told him.
“MURRRRRAY. HI, Murray. ” He spoke slowly and loudly, like a white grandpa to an exchange student. Murray sneezed.
“Is he a daddy dog?” the boy wanted to know.
“He ’ s a boy, but he ’ s not a daddy, ” I said.
Simplicity “There must be more to life than having everything . ” is the glory of expression. Suburban Philadelphia
MFA in Creative Writing MA in Publishing Dual Degree in Creative Writing and Publishing
