my pack is light now
My teeth still feel crooked. And I still feel like grinning, so I do.
Lots of things flash in my head: the cosmos, a desert, more water.
I don’t feel settled yet.
I am sitting on the edge of a rice paddy. It’s not supposed to be possible without squashing the rice plants, but I sit here anyway. If I need to move, someone will tell me to.
I hear the echo of the rice workers song my mother and father taught me.
Planting rice is never fun
Bent from morn to the set of sun
Cannot stand and cannot sit
Cannot rest for a little bit
It comes out of me before I can stop it.
I am here and listening. I will wait.
It is hot. The slight breeze doesn’t nullify the stickiness. I don’t mind. I am not working. Not toiling.
I plunge my legs and feet into the stalks of the step below. I want to giggle at the way they swallow me up as if I’ve lost those parts of me.
A man appears. His head is covered with long, silken wisps of silver and white hair. I can barely see his eyes; his face is hairy too.
He carries a pack and a walking stick. He bends forward slightly at the waist.
Who are you?
He regards me. WHO ARE YOU?
No one really. Not in this place. Just observing and reporting.
He nods. Relaxes a little.
I stop myself from saying, And you are?
He scratches his head with his free hand.
What’s in your pack?
FEATHERS.
Because your pack is a pillow? Or are you transporting them somewhere?
He shifts the pack on his back, like he doesn’t want to tell me his real purpose, or the feathers’ true nature.
What color are your feathers?
BLUE.
Is the bird still alive?
He pauses. Doesn’t want to lie.
NO, THEY’RE NOT.
Was it worth it? Will it be?
I DON’T KNOW YET.
Who works here?
He shrugs.
JUST PASSING THROUGH.
Strange route.
IT WORKS FOR ME.
Now I want to part his face down the middle, to see the curve of his nose. I’ve never seen a face part before.
YOU’RE MAKING FUN OF ME.
I start.
Um. No. Just my thoughts. I can’t corral them.
I imagine myself riding a dinosaur, a small one, my size. Reins and all. As possible as herding my brain.
Can I come with you? I don’t feel like sitting here anymore.
He stares, then starts up his walk again. We trudge through the rice plants up to our knees, probably destroying someone’s careful work. But they don’t worry about that sort of thing here.
Where are you going?
Many responses collide.
I DON’T KNOW. WHEREVER YOU WANT ME TO TAKE YOU. LET’S FIND OUT.
We make our way sideways down the steps, down towards the valley creek. I didn’t think to harvest anything while I was up there. I feel regret.
You haven’t mentioned my teeth.
DIDN’T SEEM POLITE.
I fall in step behind him, watching his hair tuft and sway as he moves. His pack seems full of rocks for someone claiming to carry feathers.
Wait.
I don’t want to go any further.
Can we sit by the water?
I don’t know what stops me. Mistrust.
He sets his pack down and opens the zipper circling the top.
A butterfly falls out sideways, then rights itself with a flap of its wings.
I want it to be orange, but it is blue.
Feather, huh.
YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.
Probably not. Try me?
He gathers up whatever is inside in his arms.
A child.
A cactus.
A watering pot with a long elephant spout.
Tools.
Gardener?
Watch your garden grow.
They are not blue.
They don’t seem light.
I feel like we are filling time. Wasting it. Going in circles.
I breathe. Stretch it out. Let him go at his own pace.
Please don’t tell me your tools are light when you’re doing the work you want to.
The baby is in diapers. It crawls away from us.
The cactus roots itself into the ground, the moist soil next to the creek.
The water pot falls over onto its spout.
THESE ARE MY OFFERINGS TO YOU.
Dang it with the tears. And another sneeze.
I have no idea what to do with those.
More collisions. Nothing. Everything. Whatever you choose.
I prick myself on a cactus thorn. I watch the blood bead on my finger. My eff you to this …. nonsense. Nonsense that moved me a couple moments earlier.
MY PACK IS LIGHT NOW,
he says before walking away.