Groundbreaker

Judy from across the street had a psychedelic bus with broken windows parked in her driveway. She said it belonged to her daughter and that if her daughter ever moved out, Judy would move to the Florida Keys with nothing but a postbox. About my husband’s Hummer H1 she said, “What’s with that boat in your driveway?” I had never complained about the bus.

She fell in her driveway and cracked open her head one day. At first I thought her screams were coming from a fox. But then I realized they were human. I did what I was taught at the Red Cross. I kept her talking, I called 911, I got a blanket. I took her to George Washington Hospital. It was five o’clock, the shitfaced shift. The ER was filled with prisoners.

The H1 is gone, the psychedelic bus is gone. The daughter is still there with a boyfriend who shoves her against metal trash cans. I have called the police many times. I’m walking the dogs by Judy’s house and she’s cutting her feather reed. I say how sad I am to see it go and head to the trail with the dogs. When I pass her on the way home, she’s waiting. She says, “Just what are you trying to tell me?”

When I’m anxious, I spit when I talk. I say I’m sorry to see the seasons change. That’s a lie, because her grasses never turn green and the seeds fly and land in my garden and I have to dig the roots out of my garden with a groundbreaker. I lie again about the splendor of autumn. I spit and make the mistake of saying ethereal when I mean ephemeral.