September 27, 2009

A fragment

Something I've been playing with as an introduction for a longer prose-poem-essay-type-thing. I'll be working on this intently over the next day and a half and then sending the longer version to my memoir group.

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Half an hour before sunrise on Monday mornings, I'd make tea and you'd let your dog run around the courtyard. We'd talk about remnants of the weekend. The success of the party. Sunday's dinner, and whether I had blended the pesto well. Deer season, hunting season, daylight savings time. Small talk to most of the world, but these half-hours would be the last minutes we would have until the weekend, and all the heavy ideas we held in our minds were too big to fit into thirty minutes. Rather, we hoarded these snippets of conversations like quarters being put away for the laundromat, saved away because we knew we'd always need them sooner or later. At some point one of us would need to reach what was 200 miles away. These little chats sustained us, provided sustenance for the days apart. Our voices were low but saturated with the fat of passion that kept our energy afloat.

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