Review

The guy who sits at the bridge most every day with his "Work Wanted" sign was doing some  with a big plastic bag nearly full in hand, he was bending over to pick up some garbage near his station. "Look!" the passers-by shout, "He's found a job!" Not me. I imagine him picking the trash up during his vigil only to place it down again before he leaves of an evening. Something to do...

Once a week and at an appointed hour, I sit in the car and wait in a parking lot. Occasionally the back door of the house across the alley will open and a woman will walk out into her backyard. Last time she was carrying a rug to shake out. Since her back was turned to me for the chore, I took photos. This time she brought along tools for gardening. "Oh good!" I thought. "I can get more action shots."  She set her supplies down and picked up a large sheet of clear 3-mil plastic. It was old, torn and repaired with duct tape. Facing me, she shook it out, and beat it into a smaller, folded square. Then she repeated the process.

I watched a vulture sift through the piles of freshly mowed grass along the freeway. Just for a second, for I was traveling at 75 mph. I wished it luck in feeding its clutch and thought of chores awaiting.

And yes, I did mow, but not before changing the oil in both the lawn tractor and my orange baby, Tragedy. Some tall, some not so so high, and still more that barely needed it. No carrion that I am aware of; however, the preserved mouse in the oil catcher was a surprise.

And then there's family. An uncle died. My mother's youngest brother. He rode it hard and sometimes took me along, details of which would provide insight beyond what I am prepared to share. He should have been dead thirty years ago, except for the stock from which he came and what hard men oftentimes beget.

The wife says I must visit my brother's grave while there. If I go...

Curious: the review I wrote this week is about art that deals with mortality. It was supposed to be published three days ago.