she would only bring her hair down in the morning,
when it was to be combed with a whalebone-handled brush, white
and small like the hand of a mother feeling for temperature. in the
pushy hours of the morning, her hair sneaked through her fingers, lapped
over her shoulder blades, deviated and curled and the brush would make
soft barking sounds as she brought it through, untangling her hair which was
dark and disturbed
like boatless water at night.
the room would smell of sleep – a single room with a bathroom and a door
to the kitchen, with naked, suffering walls. the leprous wallpaper was peeling,
patterned with yellowing flowers, delicate and hipped as perspiring ladies. her
nightgown would pool around her and she would dress in a stiff coarse
dress that she was very proud of because it was blue. on the dresser
there was a single bottle of perfume that she never used and a slender,
necking vase of flowers she insisted on, drowsing and napping on their stems
like fishermen in the shade. she would leave before the rest of the house was awake
for hillcrest orchard.
in the orchard, she would pick peaches, plush and blushing, until it was dark.
aluminum ladders steepled and rising through the branches, discreet and still
as great metal praying mantises, and her picking bag would swell and swell
with peaches not quite ripe, blotched red and embarrassed. they would play music
on old, paintflecked stereos that would almost be drowned out by the whispering
gossip leaves. she would ride back to the washing station on a platform pulled by
a tractor at night when the stars spored and spilled, and the branches of the trees
would tug at her as she passed and nicker in the dark.
her hair would smell like peaches
when she came home and she would be asleep
within moments of touching a pillow.
As always.
Gender:
Points: 27175
Reviews: 387