Blood by Allison Moorer

Author:Allison Moorer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Books
Published: 2019-10-28T16:00:00+00:00

Cold

We followed behind him with saplings in a bucket. They were pines. He had a posthole digger that made a sucking sound every time he pulled it out of the ground after he made a hole. If you don’t make a deep wound in the dirt, the roots won’t get down far enough and they won’t take hold. Then it won’t grow.

Seems like I followed behind him no matter what we did.

You have to pack the soil back around the tree. Get the air pockets out. Air pockets can kill anything—a tooth, a tree, a plane full of people.

I didn’t know the word sphagnum until just a few weeks ago. Seems like I would have known it already since it means a kind of moss that grows in wet areas and we lived in a swampy part of the world. The rot. The rot.

Lord, what we get taught to do.

I am more ambitious than I should be when it comes to what I think I can accomplish and always forget that my to-do list has no space on it. Not these days, anyway. No indolence, no idleness, no inactivity, no interims, no intermissions, no rest. No rest, no, hardly any at all.

Seems like I followed behind him no matter what we did.

I like to read everything. How many thousands of words can two eyes take in on any given day before they start to rearrange themselves on the page? One of my greatest fears is that I will die not having read everything that I want to. No need to be afraid about something that will happen. I should just go on and get used to it right now. I need glasses so I wear them. I sometimes wear glasses over my contact lenses because my eyes get tired. Glasses hurt my nose if I wear them for too long. At certain times of the day I get weary. I’m happiest at six p.m., when I feel like I’ve done the best I could with that day and it’s almost done.

Seems like I followed behind him no matter what we did.

Glasses over my contact lenses. I have poor eyesight like she did. She needed glasses to find her glasses too.

The coffee is ready now. It is 5:49 a.m. I go to bed later and get up earlier than I ever have before.

Lord, what we get taught to do.

Her feet were heavy before she got the first sip down. My coffee tastes stronger than the Maxwell House she made. But sometimes I don’t mind getting a Styrofoam cup full of her kind, weak and see-through, at a gas station. I drink it black. Then my memory starts to fire up.

Seems like I followed behind him no matter what we did.

I am dancing with a million other angels on the head of a pin in my mind, and the head of the pin is the only object I see in the blackest space of infinite space and it gets farther and farther

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