Tuesday, April 15, 2025, 37.2* Gray
I can stand on a step ladder and remove the unit from the ceiling with knees attached by Pinocchio’s strings, new in 1883. I know it is not something I should be doing. Then what? As soon as I have it in my hand another unit begins repeating the same command. I should go sit down with this foreign language thing that speaks one word every 40 seconds with no regard for my mind trying to ignore the staccato command. I should find out how to open its mouth to get the battery out. It has already digested three and still it talks to me. It hasn’t stopped talking in several weeks since my son fed it a new battery, a 10-year supply of energy.
If I could learn its language, perhaps we could have a conversation. We could plan a garden somewhere the plow doesn’t feed in the snow growing season. I could just toss some seeds over the boulders into the tree debris holding soil washed down from our fenced in land. Outside the fence in October, I planted day lilies: Blueberry Cream, Exhibitionist and Outer Space, positioned to keep the dogs from trampling, positioned to see from my desk.
In November, to circumvent further erosion, to protect boulders supporting this fenced in land, feet of gravel filled the tomb opened by days of gushing rain, filled too a circumference of 12 inches to circumvent it happening again, filled the place planted with Blueberry Cream, Exhibitionist and Outer Space. The unit oblivious to things affecting me, repeats one staccato command. I think of Tom Hanks talking to a beach ball. We are all cast away on some days.
He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.
Psalm 147:3
Art: LJ Austin
