Monday, 26 December 2011

Clay

I found a tree. Sat under it cross-legged like some kind of mystic.
Sometimes smoking, sometimes reading. Hoping, most of all, that
no-one would ever see me this day. Sometimes I’d lie flat to avoid
the gaze of a passing tractor driver.

That morning I’d watched her drive away. The sun was shining
and the car had another dent from where I’d tried driving it.

It was man’s work she was doing. Humping sacks of clay onto trucks
and into the trunks of customers’ cars. The guy that ran the place had
done a lot of travelling. He wore tie-die T-shirts and looked like a Red
Indian. He liked to tell people about how he’d been to Woodstock.

That night she came home and I could tell she was excited. She was even happy.
On the way home she’d had something of an epiphany. She realised that she liked
the work. Had found somewhere she felt she belonged.

She learnt about the different types of clay. One day the Red Indian asked her if
she’d like to drive the forklift. She quit smoking and started to wear a boiler suit.

The boiler suit lost its fresh creases and wore marks of clay.

I watched her go, determined to have nothing to do with reality this day.


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