Tuesday, September 22, 2009
XXXIX: Mrs. Scurfield V
Mrs. Scurfield came by early this morning. Woke me up. I stood scratching my head in the doorway, waiting for an explanation.
“This,“ she said with a smile, “is for you.” I became aware of a small red pot in her hands. Full of dirt. “It’s a Crooked Tree seedling,” she whispered, and handed it to me.
I raised my eyes to meet hers.
“You can do whatever you want with it,” she said. “Pave it over. It’s all yours.”
I was astounded. The unexpected weight of the soil pulled on my arms.
“But,” she continued in decreased volume, “I have a favour to ask.”
“I want you to join the Friends of the Crooked Bush.”
I was looking again at the red clay pot. I coughed.
“We’re meeting on Friday at 8pm at the Trees,” she said matter-of-factly. I began forming a response, but before I could begin to answer she turned and walked away.
I felt like shit all day. I tried smoking a cigarette but stopped half way through.
My kitchen table is covered in pages of photocopied essays. I look without reading. Now that I have time off again, my obsession returns.