April 15th
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by Aleda Shirley Taxes due， the anniversary of Henry James's death， & a brilliant sky rinsed of pollen & glare by yesterday's record rain. From the magnolia in my front yard the Mexican workers who are here to fix the foundation of my house have hung their lunches in grocery bags-they look like large dull light bulbs that have burned out. When the foreman leaves on an errand I see the youngest worker struggling to pull a water hose to the back. Through the window I tell him there's another hose in the garbage that will reach， but he doesn't understand a word I'm saying. Finally I point & say aqua & all six of them brighten with comprehension， although I realize later I used the Latin work， not the Spanish one. The house was slowly sinking， stairstep cracks along the brick， fractures in the plaster， the floor of the back bedroom sloping three inches； one night， we heard a huge crash： the window frame so distorted the glass shattered in jagged shards， transparent puzzle pieces on the fruitwood table. Later， after the holes have been dug， the forsythia & sweet olive bent out of the way， the lunches eaten， they jack the house up & it shudders & pops， the cats head for somewhere dark & safe， & before I figure out what's going on I wonder if the workers are playing soccer on the roof or if there's an earthquake. By dusk they're mixing mortar， repointing brick， & in the yard a grackle， a bluejay， & two cardinals peck at the damp grass. I'd love to draw some lesson from this， that things we can't see hold us up & it's possible for those things to be repaired. But I don't buy it； I think how you are is how you are， that the level of joy or meaning on the most ordinary Wednesday afternoon is the level of joy or meaning you're stuck with. Years from now I'll think of the lunches hanging from the tree & how at the end of a long day I heard music in the foreign recognizable sounds of the workers calling to my neighbor's dog. |
