| our first day, a deer loitered outside the kitchen window, chewing a clump of shrubs in the parking lot between their house and the commuter rail tracks to the suburbs. Furry ears, peach fuzz around the antler tips, soft, dreary eyes— afraid if I moved, I’d break the spell of our ridiculous L.L. Bean tableau. His legs tensed, ready to flee if I reached for the dish soap or squeezed the sponge too hard. We stared, sized each other up: you are Nature— either boring, like a robin posing on the front lawn, or terrifying (killer bees, tornadoes, the mysterious cicada drone in my ears that began in this moment, staring each other down). I hate the grass and mosquitos— in the Midwest, it’s never polite to tell the truth, but I’m back East now, where niceties waste everyone’s time. We’d just flown in and had lunch. Liz took a photo. I eventually looked away and finished the dishes. Copyright © 2014 by Tony Trigilio. Used with permission of the author. |
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