Life With GW
"Did you lock the door?" I asked my sister.
"Yes." She is tending to something on the floor.
We were in the basement. I looked at the door, perplexed. The deadbolt had been removed, and there was an open hole in the door where the lock had been. I looked at the other door, over by the heater. It had a deadbolt.
The guy from the energy company was outside. They were cutting down the tree at the back of the house, the big one that loomed over the roof. I went back and forth, talking with him. I knew that my evil neighbor had prompted this sacrilege somehow, some sort of complaint about the tree. I went back to the basement. The hole was still in the door. When I turned, the energy guy was behind me. "That tree was a hundred years old," I say, disturbed.
I looked at the tree trunk, now piled against the back of the house in two foot chunks. I counted the outer rings: look, knowing the ten outer ones grew while I lived my life next to it, this beautiful tree. There were so many rings I couldn't count.
I am confused as to why there is no lock in the other door in the basement. Why would she move one lock to the other door, still leaving the basement unlocked? She is still in the basement, tending to something.
Standing next to the remains of the tree, I look up to the house next door. I know she is in there, watching. Her house doesn't look like the one she lives in. She lives in a small, white cottage with beige trim and a picket fence. This house is pale orange, with iron Mediterranean grills outside the upper windows. But I know she lives there. And I know this is her doing.
There are two chairs in the small living room. The walls are beige, with a greenish hue from the lack of light. There are no windows. There are no other rooms that I am aware of. I am not aware of any TV. There is a lamp over the shoulder of the chair to my left, an old fashioned one with a fabric shade and brocade trim. George Bush is sitting in the chair, reading. I say something to him, wanting him to go downstairs to the basement and read. I don't want him in the chair. He is making noise. I want quiet.
George Bush has a grey t-shirt on, and no pants. He holds the newspaper ahead of him, and continues reading. I am increasingly annoyed, I want to be alone, but we are not fighting. I look at George's crotch, and am confused. This is David, with George's face. George leans over to me, across a small table, still with the newspaper folded open, as though he wants to kiss me.
I am gasping for air. I can't breathe. I am suffocating. Finally, air. As I open my eyes, the hooch is still dark. I am still in Iraq. I am still here. I am still alive. I am still breathing. It is almost time to get up.
This is going to be a long day.
"Yes." She is tending to something on the floor.
We were in the basement. I looked at the door, perplexed. The deadbolt had been removed, and there was an open hole in the door where the lock had been. I looked at the other door, over by the heater. It had a deadbolt.
The guy from the energy company was outside. They were cutting down the tree at the back of the house, the big one that loomed over the roof. I went back and forth, talking with him. I knew that my evil neighbor had prompted this sacrilege somehow, some sort of complaint about the tree. I went back to the basement. The hole was still in the door. When I turned, the energy guy was behind me. "That tree was a hundred years old," I say, disturbed.
I looked at the tree trunk, now piled against the back of the house in two foot chunks. I counted the outer rings: look, knowing the ten outer ones grew while I lived my life next to it, this beautiful tree. There were so many rings I couldn't count.
I am confused as to why there is no lock in the other door in the basement. Why would she move one lock to the other door, still leaving the basement unlocked? She is still in the basement, tending to something.
Standing next to the remains of the tree, I look up to the house next door. I know she is in there, watching. Her house doesn't look like the one she lives in. She lives in a small, white cottage with beige trim and a picket fence. This house is pale orange, with iron Mediterranean grills outside the upper windows. But I know she lives there. And I know this is her doing.
There are two chairs in the small living room. The walls are beige, with a greenish hue from the lack of light. There are no windows. There are no other rooms that I am aware of. I am not aware of any TV. There is a lamp over the shoulder of the chair to my left, an old fashioned one with a fabric shade and brocade trim. George Bush is sitting in the chair, reading. I say something to him, wanting him to go downstairs to the basement and read. I don't want him in the chair. He is making noise. I want quiet.
George Bush has a grey t-shirt on, and no pants. He holds the newspaper ahead of him, and continues reading. I am increasingly annoyed, I want to be alone, but we are not fighting. I look at George's crotch, and am confused. This is David, with George's face. George leans over to me, across a small table, still with the newspaper folded open, as though he wants to kiss me.
I am gasping for air. I can't breathe. I am suffocating. Finally, air. As I open my eyes, the hooch is still dark. I am still in Iraq. I am still here. I am still alive. I am still breathing. It is almost time to get up.
This is going to be a long day.
posted by akantha at 8:34 AM
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