Hawk Season Notebook #295
Heavy autumn shadows. Self-extinguishing stars you can only imagine once existed. Recalled pleasures... like Copenhagen Snuff. Did the Marlboro Man really die of cancer? Memory: the girl ran cold water on a motel-white washcloth, gave it a hard half-wring, ran it angry-wet across her brow... and you liked how clear drops of water dripped off her chin. You picked up your black Resistol from a low set of cheap-wood drawers, put it on tight against the outside summer wind. She said, I hate privacy. Half-lit lamps.... We should all be public. When we aren't public, we get discarded... like theatre programs left on seats after a show. She poured herself a shot... the last of that tequila. Heavy autumn clouds... no rain. Today it is September-middle. A friend turns up at the post office... unseen for a decade. He is eighty. Lifts weights, but still looks eighty... an in-shape eighty. He speaks of having entered a season of death, funerals he attends. You're supposed to care, he says, but you sit and mind-wander, don't know half the mourners, and you ask where God might be, not that most of us should live past where we find ourselves. Memory: white inland gulls settling onto furrowed ground.