Monday Is Chore Day

I walked for a long time shifting the box from shoulder to shoulder, feeding it through doorways and windows and leaving it with someone who should know better. I got in my car and I drove to the place where the slaughterhouse ends and the garden surrenders to the street. I rolled on the rubber and told the young woman the type that I wanted. She took care of it for me. I procured the lotions and powders and oils that we’ll rub on our bodies and into our hair. The place where they measure your value with numbers had too many people. I couldn’t get through.
I put the roots into the box. I put the oil in there too. I also put in there the treasure I took from its children, then boiled, then nearly froze, to thicken up and lighten the things we do with leaves and beans. 

There are lessons in silence that are tough to learn when you live in the place where I do. There are waves in the water and waves in the air, all waving goodbye to the waves in our hair. The oven stopped pulsing. The new flowers held their breath to hear what Segovia learned from Sebastian.

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