04/27/20: A Short Exercise in Imagery

A man holds a die between his work hardened fingertips. In his world it is the cleanest of things, the brightest white. The dirt under his fingernails contrasts this cube and matches it’s indented dots marking one through six. He rolls the thing aimlessly about his thumb and four-fingers, holding tight so that its edges leave imprints. The man rarely gets the chance to observe something so clean and bright, so he savors the moment before the harsh buzzer rings. This marks 7:00, and so he continues his work, hiding his precious thing in a small pinch sack who’s original color was lost to time.

A woman kicks a rock on her last walk home from work. Her leg swings mechanically millimeters from the ground and the toe of her Doc-Martens grazes this jagged stone sending it tumbling down the street with a sharp but quiet symphony of clicks and clacks she can not hear over the sound of her own thoughts. This stone is like many others, likely dragged by a car tire off of some unpaved driveway into the street to be run over and flung around aimlessly.

Four brothers sit restlessly in the waiting room of a hospital with fingernails cleanly bitten and hair rustled awaiting news of their terminally-ill mother’s condition. One brother begins to speak, but bites his tongue as the sight of a nurse spikes the heartrate of him those surrounding. She was simply taking a bathroom break, savoring the sweet two minutes of bliss she receives from her 12 hour swing shift.

An old man sits on a park bench on a fall day like many others. A gentle breeze kicks leaves around the battle-worn sidewalk and grass grows between the cracks of each broken and-so oblong concrete slab. He tries to remember the first time he saw this park; it must have been 50 years ago. He remembered the old pond and the trees who cared too much about their hair and a small bridge which had now been replaced with an elegant-if-heartless statue of the new world leaders. He wondered if the greenhouse on the hill was ever there, or if he had simply made it up in his failure to properly recall memories so distant.

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