Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Stain and Drain

Let's talk about stains. All this was prompted by my noticing that rust stain in the white porcelain sink in my bathroom.I'm talking about the one under the cold water faucet.You know that faucet. It drips all the time. Elmer has tried to fix it a dozen times. Maybe more. This stain is at least five inches in length and varies in width with the narrow part ending at the drain hole.

Stain and drain hole
when taken as a whole
resemble an apostrophe.

I have tried to get rid of that stain with all kinds of cleansing miracle products. But the miracle is that this stain resists all attempts at its destruction. I am beginning to think that this stain is a kind original stain of biblical origin. Like the original stain that Adam and Eve cursed us with.

Now the origin of this stain in the sink is the faucet that keeps dripping.
This faucet brings me hard water.
The kind with all the minerals and vitamins still in it.
The faucet gets it from a pipe that leads to the ground.
The ground has lots of bigger pipes that lead all over the city.
These bigger pipes get this water from resevoirs and big water towers.
I think it gets to these places from somewhere deep down in the ground.
How it gets into the ground is kind of complicated.

Some comes from rain.
Regular rain and acid rain.
If you knew what days they were going to put the acid in the rain,
you could put out some pickle jars and catch some.
And save it for emergencies.
Like an election or maybe a war.

Have you ever noticed that dogs seem to pee on the same trees over and over?
Of course pee must obey the laws of gravity just like rain.
Maybe that is what causes the water to stain my sink.
I should have taken more science classes in school.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Lost Rosary

I knew this guy. He died in a car accident.
He had been driving south.
South on I-29.
They say he lost control.
Lost control while passing a semi.
He was young.
Not even thirty yet.

His mother had a little bakery.
It was just across the bridge.
She had been a teacher down in Mexico.
His father had been a cop.
Now he helped out at the bakery.

They made the usual stuff.
Pastries for the hot chocolate.
Bread for the tortas.
Cakes for the weddings.

The highway patrol found their son in a ditch.
His hand was clutching his rosary.
The rosary usually hung on his rearview mirror.
He must have grabbed it
at the last moment.
The moment before he crashed.

I met his wife and baby at the wake.
I hugged his mother.
I hugged his father.
I hugged his brother.

His brother told me of the rosary.
And how the highway patrolman,
had seen his brother
clutching the rosary.
And now the rosary was missing.

Was it lost at the crash scene?
Was it slowly sinking in to the ground?
Was it taken by someone?
A momento of the tragedy.
Is it hidden in a box somewhere?
Does it still resonate with his last thoughts?

After the funeral there was a lunch.
A lunch at his aunt's house.
She is a photographer.
She is at all the weddings.
She is at all the first communions.
And now she buries her nephew.

And the lunch was a time to connect.
A time to affirm life.
A time to remember.

I still remember the smells of that house.
Chicken mole and warm tortillas.
And I still remember his bright eyes.