the cicadas singing me back to work
The weekend slid into its final hours, and we drove home in contented silence.
There had been warmth and revelry, a walk down a country road that revealed
an oasis of wildflowers. There had been glasses of pink lemonade and bowls
of fresh-picked strawberries. There had been a languid kind of amnesia that made
a cream rise to the top of all the hard news, almost thick enough to leave it behind.
Of course, it trailed through the front door, mud and all, when we returned,
and no amount of prayer would shake it off. I tried unpacking, laundry, pulling
the recycling to the curb, and the mud became single voices, calling from the dark
with the pain of the stories they were each carrying. Or maybe it was the cicadas,
singing me back to work. Either way, there was no other choice but to listen.