We Ain't Even Been to the Ocean

I wanted to spend this moment writing about the sweet August afternoon I just spent with my parents. I wanted to tell you, dear reader, about the kind vegetarian gesture that was their supper offering--malabar spinach quesadillas with grilled feta-topped eggplant and peppers. I wanted to remark on how my father teared up a little when we talked about my leaving next year. I teared up a little when I considered all of the sweet August afternoons that would no longer be spent grocery shopping in my parents' crops. I drove home at the loveliest time of day when the sun is hitting the fields, and the humidity has subsided enough for driving with the windows down. I couldn't figure out a way to explain the ubiquitous sadness that occurs upon leaving my childhood home and heading back to a silent house where my absent husband, who now works nights, will not be waiting to greet me. I thought it best to say as little as possible.

Sunday with parents
The harvest rolls in my trunk
A bittersweet leave

I wanted to tell you about my neighbors that left in the night. They are the loud renters on the corner, who, whether it be Wednesday, Thursday, or any other day of the week, are always surrounded by equally loud family and friends. They gather in the driveway and play a game of audio combat--each one-upping the other with their selected bass-heavy tunes. They left in the night, but their dog is still tethered to a tree with a chain. The Bunny and I have been feeding her until we can figure out what to do. I guess we keep wondering if they'll return, or maybe the dog would be better off if they didn't. Every time I cross their property line, I think I smell those ribs, which we were offered but never tasted.

Boom boom boom boom boom
I hear bass before I smell
Neighbors cooking ribs

To my left is an empty bowl. The Bunny will be home at midnight.

Special K with milk
You feed me and then you leave
Others have to eat