May 2014 - Comments Off on We are Making an Island of Our Own Skin
Tommy Melvin '16
I had to dig a sadness out of the mud. In the backyard, I scavenged what was left, brought it inside, placed it in a light brown pot. Now, its windowsill is struck by yellow 9am light.
Where does one find these things? I drove myself into a fever searching. My old high school, that coffee-shop, the bowling alley. The attic, the basement, the sock drawer. My fists clenched, my head pounding, I swore that I had looked everywhere that meant anything.
But it was in the backyard that I finally found it, a sadness, buried. I guess I had been hoping for something like an answer-key, or some sort of spiritual enlightenment, like the smell of broken earth or a freezing autumn rain in shorts and t-shirt, but what I finally found was the same-old, a life begging to be lived again and no different, a clump of dirt, all roots and no flower.