Broken Sidewalk, and: Living in a Tin Shack, and: White Butterfly on White Clover

C&ílMe Commue ._.—by JaneMayhall BROKEN SIDEWALK In the dark night it lay broken, upheaved by itself between an urban commons and the street. The weeds were dark in the dark light of the commons, distinct to a cat's eyes had it wandered around, and to people walking home who knew the walk was broken. Shapes of the weeds were clear also to the children who'd played in the commons by day. The dark was silent in its gutters, and quiet with shuffling leaves; and houses with their window shades half-open reflected trails of light upon the softening dark, the softness of the dark where'children had played. Two women, long ago sisters, though now they both are dead, walked in the quiet darkness under dark; and the sky was a language of stars, opacity and the votive twinklings ; and under the book of stars was where children had played. Some neighbors were walking home past telephone poles and a street light, talking quietly and easily finding their way, because they knew the street and where the sidewalk had broken. The winds caught the weeds in a gently, kind foreboding; and the world was laved in its darkness. The women, softly talking, though now they both are dead; the child who walked beside them like a cat, heard their conversation , and felt the night in all its austerity, pride and gentle darkness. Each walked on the broken sidewalk, easily finding the way because they knew the street and where they were going in the quiet darkness. LIVING IN A TIN SHACK My Aunt Ellie, living in a tin shack, said, "Welcome, you can share it. Your Uncle can sleep on the steps." That was Colorado, and believe it or not he got a blanket and spread it on the cinderblocks just outside the door; and when it was night he stretched himself out, and put his old cowboy hat beside him. 56 My Aunt was glad to see me; we'd never met because she'd left Kentucky as a young'un and married a Western man. I'd heard tales about her beauty, and the lassblack hair and white cigarette held between clear red lips, and with the vigor of the flapper era. Now, she'd come to this, with short dyed hair and mascara eyes hungry for life. She said, "You can share half the cot." I did; we talked about our family, poverty outside licking at the big sky. Her husband scrunched up on the hard cement steps, listening maybe gratefully to two females chatting. The loneliness and deprived conditions were like cold from mountains, without benefit of our Kentucky vegetation. These were two who'd been eager and young. She said, "Do you think it's too late for taking chances? getting out, and starting again?" Getting where? I wondered; and what world outside would admit their re-entry? I hated taking the only space, and next morning eating the food they probably could not afford. Her hospitality was all she had left. Refusal not my option. He sat paring an apple, and humming. WHITE BUTTERFLY ON WHITE CLOVER They are both rather green, dissembling; each with a filtered yellow, masting on to the other. There's a black and gold bumblebee competing for the clover. But colors are obscure, like that in which a painter sees every difference, (sun changing on a river, or turning pink in a blue iris). This, the clover is not really white, the bumblebee's a blot; and the butterfly, shaping wings in its several rainbow-grays, fans out. 57 ...