Nothing to Do

Hey, you were warned.

At Willey’s, I buy a 50 cent fudgesicle and a stopper for the drain of the old clawfoot tub I’ve dragged out to pasture to serve as a watering vessel for the cows. In the store everyone is masked, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve worn a mask in nearly 2 weeks. How quickly things are reverting to normal. How quickly we seem to have forgotten all the ways the pandemic was going to change us.

Back in the car, I sit for a minute and eat my fudgesicle in fewer bites than strictly necessary, wishing I’d bought a second. I mean, I don’t even like them all that much, but I know a bargain when I see one. The summer people flow in and out of the store. You can spot ’em a mile distant, they carry their awayness with them like one of those regretful tattoos that can’t quite be erased. I like the summer folk. They’re relaxed, friendly. They smile a lot. They grease this little town, and lord knows we need all the greasing we can get.

At home, I fit the stopper to the tub and run water. The cows watch from their patch of shade, their big eyes blinking against gathered flies, the ground beneath them worn grassless and dusty from their lingering.The tub flows over, the water spilling over its side in a curtain, wetting the thirsty soil below. God we need rain bad. I shut off the hydrant, pull the hose from the tub. The cows are still watching, still blinking, still lingering. As if there were nothing to do but sit and wait for the rain to fall.

Haven’t shared any music in a while. Here’s a nice one from Morgan Wade.