MELODY RETURNS FROM NASHVILLE

Melody returned from Nashville today, so God is merciful to me. She and Jamie broke three hours for the half-marathon, finishing in 2:50. I finished nothing in 2:50. I did not even finish the laundry in 2:50. I did not complete raising the children in 2:50. I can’t even breathe well in my home because of the dirt caused by me not cleaning it. I think our dog had a stroke yesterday. It rained for Melody between Nashville and Columbus. It did not rain here. I prepared nothing for anybody while I was here. I only watched the extras on the 10th anniversary CD edition of Sling Blade. Besides that, I slept and walked.

I walked 23 miles today. I sneezed and hacked the whole way. I slept six hours last night. I willed myself down the dark road this morning and knew that Melody was still in bed in the too-expensive hotel room. Nashville is the Country-Western music capital of the world. My home is the Depression capital of the world. Crescent Road is the Dark-Before-Dawn capital of the world, and the well in Fitchville is the capital of When to Stop and Look Down an Embankment into a River Where Naked Indians Used to Mate and Shoot Wolves.

Nothing tastes worse in the pre-dawn dark than a bread sandwich coated in peanut butter, honey and wheat germ. Maybe I am allergic to honey. I could not possibly be allergic to wheat germ. Too many raisins stir too many farts from too many people, including the writer of the current paragraph. It is no excuse to stop growing raisins, but a damn fine excuse to stop eating them.

My kids and I did nothing for each other; Jefferson mowed the grass and emptied the trash baskets for his mother. We all existed in a weekend void of vacancy except for ourselves. I did not know where the other people were and they did not know the location of me. This is somewhat metaphoric because I am a responsible person. I told Jefferson that Melody is the hard drive and I am the floppy drive. Jefferson ignored the computer analogy and said that Melody was the engine and I was the windshield wipers.

I don’t even want to know.

© 2006 by Martin Zender