SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Dolly Varden - Thursday, Aug. 23, 2018
Late August - Monday, Aug. 20, 2018
Houseguests - Monday, Aug. 13, 2018
No Hands - Tuesday, Aug. 07, 2018
This Is Me - Monday, Jul. 09, 2018


Sunday, Jun. 24, 2018 @ 10:10 am
Late June



The bathroom cabinet falls from the wall at 1 am. It crashes onto the toilet and remains lodged between the vanity and the toilet. Pills and hair elastics scattered across the tile floor.

A few days later, I look to fix the toilet paper holder, a casualty in the fall. I use a tiny screwdriver from my sewing machine repair kit to tighten the miniature screw.

Evening time. Sunlight rippling between the limbs and leaves of the neighbours towering maple tree. I am reading a book, sitting on our patio, surrounded with the musk of a pink climbing rose and the mock orange.

The houses are close together. There are special legal agreements on our land, the houses built across property lines, or perhaps the property lines drawn after the houses were built. We all live together, our neighbours and us.

I am in love with the man on one side. He is an unpredictable artist, also musician, lean and tall, a head of wild curls. He rides his bike around town to his various handyman jobs that he works to support his passion.

I hear the whirr of his bike arriving. He leans it up in the back yard and begins to sing. His voice is resonant, and the sound is so rich and close that my heart aches. He stops singing and calls out to his wife, "Come out and sit with me; it's a beautiful evening!"

"Are you going to deal with the dishes in the sink?" she responds.

I want to climb over the fence, to dance a pirouette on the lawn, carry my arms in graceful sweeps, in the dappled evening sun, to the sound of his voice.

The dishes. The fucking dishes can wait.


Roots | Shoots