Page 37 - October 2020
P. 37

room I do the same with the imaginary rooms of my mind, its corridors, its dark
              corners, its humid wardrobes. I keep useless thoughts out. Like what day it is today
              or  shouldn't  I  be  eating  something  for  breakfast  —  those  thoughts  are  of  the
              useless kind. If they come I let them go away. Keeping a mind blank takes skill and
              practice. I wonder if lawn mowing also takes skill and practice. The neighbor must
              be the best lawn mower in town. If I had a lawn, I would hire him.



              I  never  had  a  lawn.  That  is  not  true.  I  had  a  lawn,  but  it  wasn't  mine.  I  was  just
              renting a room. The lawn was kept by a gardener who didn't seem to be very good
              at  it.  There  were  patches  of  soil,  patches  of  dry  grass,  weeds.  He  didn't  use  a
              mower. I forgot his name.


              Have I ever had a mower? I see one in my memories, a black and red machine, quite
              noisy, and I can smell the recently cut grass as it falls from the machine back on
              the shiny lawn, under a summer light. How is this memory possible? Where could I
              get a mower? And where could I use it, me, who never owned a house nor lawn? I
              try to dwell on the memory of the mower, but nothing else is there. I mourn the lost
              memory.


              Remembering  is  much  more  useful  than  thinking.  Remembering  keeps  the

              memories  alive.  Remembering  makes  one's  existence  real.  I  remember.  I  don't
              know what day of the week it is.


              “Oh  my  god,  it’s  so  late!  I  have  to  go,  pick  up  the  grandkids…”  the  maid,  Rosa,
              agitatedly  gesturing,  is  standing  besides  me  looking  at  my  distant  stare.  “Chris,
              you should really fix the wall clock, it doesn’t work!”


              I follow her hand pointing at the wall clock. My eyes widen. It still shows 9 o’clock.


              “The kitchen clock is broken?” I hear my voice coming from far within me..


              “From the start! I mean, since I started  working here. It is so difficult to keep track
              of time without the clock… I need to remove my watch while cleaning. It must be
              the batteries. I can replace them right now if you have any spare.”


              I get up to stand in front of it. The slim second hand didn’t move.


              “Don’t worry, Rosa. I’ll do it. Go, don’t be late,” I say with my best imitation of a

              human face. She doesn’t insist. I hear the door close.


              Alone  in  the  house  again  I  look  at  the  wall  clock.  It  —  didn't  work?  Had  I  truly
              thought that anytime I looked at it it was 9 o'clock? 9 am. 9 pm. How could I live so
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