Hurricane Lamps and Survival Crackers
Memoir by Amber Jarvis ~ topic Summer
All the cracks have been filled with a mixture of dust and motor oil and spider webs. The hot sun is stubborn and persistent. You can smell the gravel and grass just outside the door and the cool darkness of the garage is a kind companion as you wait for him to return. His jacket hangs from the rung of an upended rocking chair, a jacket stiff and filthy with necessity and last-minute rescues and pet projects. It smells like sawdust and grease with faint traces of Brut and looks half-inflated by the raw energy of his work. Here baby food jars nailed to the underside of the shop table are filled with small treasures of purpose – circles to separate, circles to connect. Feel the small jar in a small hand, grip it tight with both to feel the tension build and crack the jar open, bang and scrape small knuckles on something metal and mysterious. The pain rushes hand to mouth. Somehow this helps – the blood and muck mix into a metallic tang that makes a face. A tiny copper spring looks like a magic spell among the dutiful washers. Keep looking, even though you know right where to go. This is where you go when he’s gone away, when you get that feeling and holding onto trees isn’t enough.
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