Sunday Reveries: Doctor Appointments
"Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases."
--Haruki Murakami
The six (and a half) year old lies on his stomach under the cover of the front porch. He makes little buildings out of domino tiles on the surface of a thick and lumpy blanket. It's a regular downpour but as long as he sticks close to the building he's protected. Normally April would mean flower-viewing and rushing to the park to celebrate Spring… But that’s only when the weather cooperates.
His mother and father are off to another doctor’s appointment. The visits are becoming regular and weeks are now planned around them. While the boy’s parents are out, his cankerous grandmother comes in from the other side of town. She’s threatening to move in if it becomes any more frequent. But the old woman is predictable and if he’s quiet enough then she’ll eventually fall asleep in front of the television, eyebrows angled in a permanent scowl.
Sometimes his mother jokes about that expression when his father can't hear.
He’s waiting for the old man who promised to teach him dominoes -- but even at six (and a half) he realizes that the dead are horrible timekeepers. So instead he plays with the tiles and carries on conversation with the little girl he coaxed out of his closet. She sits curled up in the corner with her small dog, uncomfortable and complaining.
The rain boxes in the porch, creating three walls of white noise. He likes it and plans to stay out until his parents get back. He’s got cheese and crackers so he won’t even have to go in for dinner if it gets too late.
The polka-dot house he's building collapses when he gets up peer over the paneled railing. The problem with rain is that sound becomes terribly distorted and every passing car sounds like it should be pulling into the driveway. Flopping down on his belly again, he smooths out the blanket and pushes the tiles to one side. The little girl tells him to make a butterfly instead and he nods agreeably, getting to work while she directs.
--Haruki Murakami
The six (and a half) year old lies on his stomach under the cover of the front porch. He makes little buildings out of domino tiles on the surface of a thick and lumpy blanket. It's a regular downpour but as long as he sticks close to the building he's protected. Normally April would mean flower-viewing and rushing to the park to celebrate Spring… But that’s only when the weather cooperates.
His mother and father are off to another doctor’s appointment. The visits are becoming regular and weeks are now planned around them. While the boy’s parents are out, his cankerous grandmother comes in from the other side of town. She’s threatening to move in if it becomes any more frequent. But the old woman is predictable and if he’s quiet enough then she’ll eventually fall asleep in front of the television, eyebrows angled in a permanent scowl.
Sometimes his mother jokes about that expression when his father can't hear.
He’s waiting for the old man who promised to teach him dominoes -- but even at six (and a half) he realizes that the dead are horrible timekeepers. So instead he plays with the tiles and carries on conversation with the little girl he coaxed out of his closet. She sits curled up in the corner with her small dog, uncomfortable and complaining.
The rain boxes in the porch, creating three walls of white noise. He likes it and plans to stay out until his parents get back. He’s got cheese and crackers so he won’t even have to go in for dinner if it gets too late.
The polka-dot house he's building collapses when he gets up peer over the paneled railing. The problem with rain is that sound becomes terribly distorted and every passing car sounds like it should be pulling into the driveway. Flopping down on his belly again, he smooths out the blanket and pushes the tiles to one side. The little girl tells him to make a butterfly instead and he nods agreeably, getting to work while she directs.