I’m in the brook, a fancier word for creek. To say that the swiftly moving water feels pleasurable on my toes is a trivialization. I left things undone before I came here. (No matter where you find yourself, that statement will be true.) 

I chose the tallest big flat rock I could find to place in the middle of the stream. The objective was to sit down and stretch my legs in the water. The rock weighed at least seventy lbs. But once I picked it up, I was committed. Even as I regretted my decision as my feet slipped on the mossy rocks. 

I would worry about the potential for unseen reptiles rapidly approaching beneath the sheen of the water. But I see  no need. The risk is small. And certainly less than the unfelt one that unleashed on a Monday afternoon after work almost two years ago. Within hours, a skilled surgeon cut me open, doing his version of an extemporaneous fact-finding mission. I assume it was a skilled surgeon. For all I know, it could have been a housekeeper impersonating a surgeon. I would hope he would have charged me less.

I woke up the next morning. Given that almost 7 million Americans are moving around with brain aneurysms, I won’t hold it against a snake or two if they do what comes naturally to them. Not to mention the lunacy of driving around here with rabid sports aficionados driving amok. 

The number of days remaining to comfortably stand in the creek up to my knees is rapidly dwindling. Both because of Autumn’s approach and perhaps my own twilight. 

I left the apartment behind this afternoon to go to the creek. Isn’t it amazing how inertia sometimes masquerades as relaxation or obligation? There will always be dust. Trash to take out. And other equally important tasks such as rearranging the utensil drawer.

Yesterday, I thought of myself as on the fringe. At least one hundred interesting things to do or see, yet there I was, esconsed in my tiny little box.

When you find yourself literally dreaming ‘time is short,’ maybe it’s a good time to give inertia a hard kick in the ass.

No snakes today. At least none that I saw.

Love, X

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It was 100°. I saw him walking a little erratically near the trail so I changed course to accidentally cross paths. It seemed like heat exhaustion. He surprised me by walking under the bridge on the trail so I went over it and made a loop. I asked him if he needed anything. He was quite polite. There was something off about his voice. He declined anything to drink, eat and said he didn’t need a ride anywhere. He went on to tell me that he works very early in the morning with a friend of his in Springdale. When he’s done, he walks back because his friend has to go immediately to another job. I told him that I didn’t mean to intrude but between the way he was walking and the unusual cadence of his speech, it concerned me a little more. He took a moment and then told me that when he was younger one of several stepfathers had beaten him severely enough to cause permanent damage. I wished him well as he took his shirt off and then his shoes. His plan was to step into the creek and cool off before walking the rest of the way back to wherever he lived. It struck me how different his reasons for getting into the stream are compared to mine. The man plugs along and does what he has to. My deck of cards looks a lot less stacked now.

The girls to whom I gifted the chalk yesterday did indeed end up drawing in several places around the creek. It’s mostly obliterated now by the bikes and feet that traversed it in the interim. That’s okay. Not just because chalk is a temporary method of artwork. Rather, glimmers (or lemon moments as I call them), they are transitory, fleeting, and trapped in the amber of memory. I hope when they grow older they remember their loving grandfather who brought them to places like this. And that they do the same for anyone who follows them.

Perhaps due to the August heat, I remembered my grandpa for a bit as the hot surfaces attempted to burn the bottoms of my feet. Grandpa walked with me from the little township of Rich to a commensurate community named Monroe. A long stretch of flat highway, flanked by thousands of acres of crops. Dragonflies buzzing, and the sound of my grandpa’s voice. His voice was mostly silent and though I trick myself into believing I can sometimes remember its resonance in my dreams, that’s probably nostalgic wishful thinking.

The water is cool today, though not as chilly as yesterday. There are no little souls frolicking in the water. None of which thwarted my enjoyment of the moment.

Love, X
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