Dear Spanish

Dear Spanish,

Did you ever watch a chick come out of the egg? One of the neighbors here has an incubator; sometimes I watch it when I’m out sneaking a cigarette. Looking for their motives, I guess, the chicks’ that is. I suppose it’s claustrophobia, knowing, all of a sudden, with what tiny brain you have, that you are endowed with the tool that can free you. Cause for a little while, they are happy in there, I bet. Or, forget happiness, that’s not it. They fit, is all. And then they don’t fit so well and there’s something in them knows the walls aren’t as solid as they feel, and that there is a reason for this one sharp part of them.

If you’re hurting, Spanish, it’s probably an actual hurt. Did you get that bad tooth filled? Did you smooth the bunched-up felt in the bottom of your boot? There shouldn’t be much hurt over me being gone; I was on my way out from the moment I finally knew where I was. I’m too sharp for the thin walls of that house, the way passing headlights shine right through to the bedroom, as if looking for a heartbeat.

The cigs? I’m quitting. Little by little, but it’s still how I  measure distance. The guy with the incubator lives one cigarette away. To get back to you? I’d run out of lung.

Anyway, take care of yourself.
Virginia

***

Laura
Farmer
Providence, Rhode Island, United States of America

One thought on “Dear Spanish

Leave a Reply