Empire

Ode to Water

55 Ode to Water The squeegee works its way across the glass in strokes, the blade cuts light from dust as bird droppings blacken and ink their way down. I could be two or three the way I’m drawn to count the sliding drops rushing to swallow others from behind. I am impressed with every small performance, the air as it transforms the light, revealing how the window warps the telephone pole, my mother’s unconscious, watery arm, raised to not greet me, four, five, six times. I love this home where something always shines. Where a pane reflects everything and you stare through it. But quickly I’ll be asked to come and join her. “You can at least help me out,” she mouths as if into a barrel filled with water. “I will,” I think, grabbing rags and heading through the back doorway. The light outside is scattering around the trees, around my shadowy dark circumference. ...