Stream of consciousness practise

There is a man in a white construction vehicle and he’s headed home. The headlights ignite and he pulls out of the construction sites drive way – parallel from my apartment window. I know he doesn’t see me perched in my sill, barefoot and straggly; but I see him. I see him and as I writer I will make it my duty to think about him for more than a second. As writers do. He appears to me in a number of ways. Like a mirage he dances and dissolves before me. Like a hallucination he haunts the humanity of my pupils and taunts my senses. Like a hologram I watch him, soul separate from performance.

I think of him driving home now in his white work truck. Dust is gathered in all different places. Behind his ears, in the scruff of his neck, deep in the greying follicles of his scalp. He is my father, the only one I have ever known. I imagine him driving on the highway with the late Autumn sun coming to a close, shutting its curtains and bidding adieu. The orange and purple haze rising above traffic is beautiful, it reminds him of playing baseball in the school field before dark. This is when his brothers would insist on turning in. He never wanted to.

I know you and your white truck like I know my own childhood turning over on itself and beginning to wilt. Branches sagging with the weight of work and no play. I know you because I fear I will become you. You, still driving, not speeding or hurrying your descent into the sunset because this is it for you. This is the baseball diamond glowing at perfect temperature and October tolerance. You don’t want to stop playing the same way you don’t want to stop driving. I don’t want you to stop driving either, I don’t want you to stop smiling at the shadow eclipsing over your tired face that doesn’t own a hint of certainty.

There is a man in a white construction vehicle pulling into his driveway. The headlights fade out and the engine shuts down. The 6 30 sun is more than ripe. I can’t really see him now but I pretend he can see me, and he thinks he knows me. Like i’m his daughter, and he urges me to play baseball with my brothers for a moment longer.

  • D

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