The Chinese truck driver throws the rope like a lasso, with a practiced flick, over the load: where it hovers an instant, then arcs like a willow into the waiting, gloved hand of his brother. What does it matter that, sitting in traffic, I glanced out the window and found them that way? So lean and sleek-muscled in their sweat-stiffened t-shirts: offloading the pallets just so they can load up again in the morning, and so on, and so forth forever like that— like Sisyphus I might tell them if I spoke Mandarin, or had a Marlboro to offer, or thought for a minute they’d believe it when I say that I know how it feels to break your own back for a living. Then again, what’s the difference? When every light for a mile turns green all at once, no matter how much I might like to keep watching the older one squint and blow smoke through his nose? Something like sadness, like joy, like a sudden love for my life, and for the body in which I have lived it, overtaking me all at once, as a bus driver honks and the setting sun glints, so bright off a windshield I wince and look back and it’s gone. Copyright © 2015 by Patrick Phillips. Used with permission of the author. |
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