Walking with no Moon

Untitled Part 1

It isn't raining and there probably isn't a moon. There hasn't been a moon for quite some time, there never is if you never look. I imagine the stars are looking for it, though; there has to be a reason for their light. If not the moon, they're looking for something else. I have been walking the edge of this dingy park for nearly twenty-three minutes. The park is more of an unkempt children's playground with brown faded boards outlining overused wood-chips. Bits of wild grass groom themselves across the messy sidewalk as if to say "I'm not bald yet." It makes me wonder if someone trimmed the impoverished foliage- would the wood-chips feel younger? Of course not, trees don't have feelings. Dead trees definitely don't have feelings. And from what I've heard, fish don't either.

I like to walk along the sidewalk and zig-zag to make the concrete feel adequately used. When it's not raining, I like to drag my hands through the air at hip-height with outstretched fingers and when I feel the breeze, I try to catch it. If I time it right, I can still feel the wind curling around in my closed fist until I've swallowed it in my thoughts. When it's raining, I like to drag my hands through the air at hip-height with outstretched fingers and when I feel the breeze, I try to catch it.

The playground has a forgiving rock wall, scalable by child amateurs- I guess everyone deserves the mental trophy, too. Downstream of this obstacle lay an unfortunate green slide and a set of oddly designed monkey bars that scream in silver. An overweight see-saw fills the would-be void between the slide and a partial swing set. Either an impossibly large child managed to break the links in the chain or the maintenance up-keep is scheduled for the same time a wood-chip replacement will occur. It's only about eight-tenths of a mile from here to the house, which means I have roughly eight-tenths of broken concrete and streams of uneven grass to follow. I tend to feel more comfortable walking on an imperfect sidewalk, it makes me feel like any damage I potentially do to it would be inconsequential. The slow, trudging steps that scrape and rub tiny bits of invisible rock flakes add up over time, and with my zig-zagging, I should pay attention to that.

I can't seem to hold onto any stream of thoughts. I finish them before they're completed and have a terribly atrocious habit of ignoring coherence. But it's not that far, home to here. The house on my right has a deceptively beige wrap-around porch with a handful (three) of steps that argue with the grass. There's a paved path with tiny smudged concrete handprints where the sidewalk connects. Here welcomes an incongruently written "Abby," juxtaposed to a clearly adult "2017." It makes me feel slippery. And coldly wet.

While the rain continues down the street I swim by each house, breast-stroking along the way. I like to pretend that the rain drops collecting on my skin and in my clothes were meant for me the way fleas are meant for dogs. I feel saturated with hope and warmth, I can't think of anything more relieving than coming in from a cold wet and drying off in a hot shower. My steps switch to a slow meander and I hear myself ask me questions.

"How long has it been?"

"I've been walking for nearly 27 minutes."

"Right, what if we got a dog?"

"You mean what if I got a dog?"

"Right."

Then I said to the fool: "You're being a fool."

"It'll help. It can't hurt."

"What? Dogs can hurt. They have teeth and needs."

"So the worst case scenario is that you still feel desperate, isolated and awful?"

"Plus I'd have to feed something again."

I sighed at myself passive-aggressively.

"I'll look when we get home. I need to dry off before I can make decisions. And then I'll look for a mildly active, midsized, low-shedding dog."

My house stood on aging concrete and it had a saddening face of windows and bricks. The overhang stuck to itself using cobwebs, wind had caused some to cling to the porch siding like childhood gum under tables. The loose door-handle didn't bother me, not anymore. It needed to be depressed and lifted before it'd catch and open- seemed to work just fine. The door swung inward and the wallpaper welcomed me with disgust. Seams and edges dissolved their own glue long ago and the corners try to cut me as I walk past, but I'm always wary. Maybe tomorrow I'll tear it off so I can just repaint everything. Yeah, definitely tomorrow.