I’m sitting on my decrepit porch, spray painting mundane items gold. Frankly, I couldn’t have come up with a better metaphor for life myself. Even as I feel the sleep take over my eyes and pull my limbs down towards the Earth’s center, I still eat up how the sunset catches the tips of the trees across the street, the same trees I’ve avoided for years in hopes that those neighbors won’t waste their lousy breath to acknowledge my rare presence outdoors.
I let the lazy chirps of birds run in and out of my ears, let the scurry of teeny ant legs move beneath my calves. I watch the cars swerve into driveways as everyone comes home at once. Sometimes I recognize faces (like Ziba’s kids), sometimes just the sound (like the loud ass motorbikes 3 doors down). On this decaying porch, new and old collide as the world I’ve stayed in for most of my life continues to shift around me. Sometimes I go crazy with how much I’ll miss it. But when I sit alone in my bedroom, there’s never as much to miss.
For those who were unimpressed by the Kansan scenery, I ask them if they’ve ever seen a wheat field. Despite all of the possible construction that our Great Plains have endured, the wheat field remains unending in her billowing glory.
She does not care for the roads, the offices, or the Starbucks the men she raised use to mow her out. She hides herself along the curbs or pushing up in-between sidewalk cracks, leaving her thick hair loose and long. We zip by her on the highway or on the way to work, to busied by our own sorrows to acknowledge the effort she’d put into her gleam and shine that day.
The wheat field knows her timeless beauty, with her blazing white brush and her free and flowing body. We dance together as the wind blows, her long blades a long swaying skirt and the sound like a rattlesnake or the friction of heaps of box braids.
The wheat field knows her purpose. She doesn’t fuss as the cows graze around, chewing her away until she’s bare. She knows that she’ll spring back within a few mornings, her bundle thicker and stronger than before.
The wheat field is plain to the commoner, but fierce to those who acknowledge her unending gifts. You may not be hers to beguile, but it’d mighty arrogant for you to assume she’d ever care.