02.25.06

seismic shock

The old Indian woman stands there in her sari next to the old house, her skin as brown as the bricks and leathered from the sun perhaps, from her children’s children’s running, from the steam of chai rising up from glazed earthenware cups. As I walk past she sates at me, and I stare back. Her eyes are small and black; she looks at me as if I had killed her son in a factional war. I haven’t. I have no recall of it at all.
Her head atop he folded arms swivels to watch me and I smile, bouncing on my way. Soon she is out of my field of vision and I feel her slowly fading away, her gaze on my back as the fog envelopes her.
The other day there were two women in kimonos, laughing and their geta clacking against the concrete as the train moaned in the distance. Walking, I had seen a Japanese businessman, covered in furs, escorting them to stores around town. Now they smiled at me when I passed, their red lips sliding over brilliantly white teeth.
For a moment I stop, and I am not sure what to do. The train doors open and off they clatter, the silk fluttering.
I continue to walk.
I was told once that the fog was when the sky came down to kiss the earth. They were great friends you see, great loves, and the sky hovered above, wrapping the earth in itself most of the time, shielding it. They were in a perpetual embrace. Sometimes though, they would kiss, and the earth would react accordingly.

shi-ou-sama at 11:23 p.m.

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