Rendered Fat Content


"No will in the universe countermand's any season's commands."

A glance out the front window into the predawn darkness convinced me that a thin dusting of snow had fallen overnight. Stepping outside, I saw that moonlight had created an optical illusion. No snow had fallen. This morning, I told myself that I would not be fooled again when I glanced through that same front window, then I stepped outside to find a light dusting of snow and no moon. The neighborhood, and by extension the whole world, seemed hollow inside, as if I live within a snow globe's confines with no possible escape route. I felt hollow inside, too, a recursion befitting the season. Septober's definitely over, Octember's clearly begun.

I'd pruned out the wildflower garden in my shirtsleeves the afternoon before, absorbing warmth from the late day sun.
The Muse was running an errand to somewhere over on the Kansas side of the city, so I build a little fire in the backyard fire pit, hoping that the flames might warm me a bit after sunset came. I burned the wildflower trimmings and a few leftover construction two by fours from last year's window replacement project. I felt as though I was closing circles, coming back around upon myself, probably repeating prior patterns. The fire, too, seemed hollowed out, with a swirling space in its center surrounded by fine-grained licking flames. I kept my back to the wind.

The weatherman said to expect seventy-five mile per hour gusts. When winter comes, it carries grudges seeking vengeance. Without supper, the beer went straight to my head and I fell asleep with the game piped directly into my head before the walk off homer ended play. I had to backtrack the next day to remember what I'd slept through. So little to do and so very much time to complete it. I walked through a bookstore while The Muse perused an adjacent clothing store. I browse my library much more often than I sniff around any bookseller's shop. It seemed oddly organized, distinguishing between paperback and hard cover, bestsellers and others, fiction and not, broad categories containing odd mixes of titles, very little very interesting. I found two worthy of buying before wondering what I thought I was trying to do. More grist needing seeing to without real motive to see to much of anything.

I trotted out the remnants of summer's petunia garden yesterday, pots and trays still filled with color swaying in an unconvincing sun. The plants had begun to slip into hibernation after cowering in the dark corner of the cool garage. I wondered what I was trying to preserve as the summer seemed to be slipping away of its own accord now, appreciative of my groaning efforts to haul it out then back inside again, but acceding to the insistent angle of the sunlight. None will survive, though I will continue to hide them away until they finally wilt along with a prolonged chill. No will in the universe countermand's any season's commands.

©2019 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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