"In the Garten of Ina" by Brandt ScheidemantelI wonder if clouds get hungry, he thought. The sunset draped sherbet hues beyond the mountains and he felt as though he could taste the bare tree trunks in the valley. Maybe if he could snatch them up, they would crunch like chocolate pretzels.
Lately, he had also wondered about God, about the origin of things. The order to the day. A germinating flower, a robin’s nest. The architecture of sunshine. How, when the sun dies, the stones of the front stoop radiate like indentations in the sheets. Moonlight that reveals thoughts, bumping in the night. He gulped a finger of whiskey and leaned in the deck chair. “If you don’t have homemade whipped cream,” reassured a TV voice, “store bought is fine.” “Will you shut ‘er up!” he hollered toward the kitchen. “Hush and drink your whiskey,” his wife responded through the screen window. “Store bought this and store bought that...” “Harold...” “You done nothin’ but buy from the store anyhow.” “This ain’t Nam.” “So I say, what’s changin’?” “Harold, God dammit, you watched your mouth for fifty years. Don’t stop now.” She closed the window. The sky faded from rust to black and all depth was swallowed into darkness. Approaching his chair, she tripped the motion sensor light. He wiped tears from his cheek. She placed her hand on his shoulder and a cream-topped bowl of berries in his lap. “Who am I?” he asked the darkness. She grabbed his whiskey and sipped. “Sweetheart,” she said, feeling his fingers squeeze hers, “if you don’t have a homemade order for things, God’s order is fine.”
1 Comment
Amanda
6/30/2020 02:40:22 pm
I absolutely love the opening line, and indeed the opening paragraph!
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