I watch the seven-day forecast on the news each night because I do not have a roof, I cannot watch the stars or read them. I read the Farmers’ Almanac, it foretells an early heavy winter. Salt bags sell quickly, sand bags too. Should the snow turn to rain and flood, the men will be ready. (We will not have a Prague or Dresden.) Should the talk turn to war – here’s a shovel, dig a trench, foxhole, grave. Garden too, for soldiers eat, and on both sides.
My mother has cut my hair and my father, who is missing one finger, can count the remaining vacation days on his hands. Yes, I will go to school and class. To have rhythm cheers. But if any teacher gives me twenty synonyms for missing and heroes and I am wretched with grief, and asks for detailed explanations of each (set in last September), I will bracket him or her with the weariest types of people, and doodle. This year I don’t want to buy more newspapers than I can carry home or run downstairs to shout the radio announcer’s latest to my fretting parents. I might snag my dress on a sharp corner and through the tear you would see my skin, gone black from newsprint. I don’t want to mean to look up a river on a map and fall asleep having forgotten the intention. On school-mornings I’d like to leave the water gushing from the bathroom faucet. So what if the city buses scream, Please save water! It’s going be an early heavy winter for sure, without a dry day or sunny spot. And running water is a good sign that someone lives here, that someone will come back at night to turn the water off, don’t raise the roofs with proclamations of missing and heroes and I am wretched with grief.
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