Contentment

I dig. I started with the driest part in my backyard. We had not seen rain in a few months. Autumn just started. The light was bright, the breeze had the slightest moistness to it. I shiver at the word moistness! I hate it. Moist! Moist! Yuck.

Anyway I had watered the area last three nights. The water had soaked right through. Just like my sweat soaks right through my cotton T-shirt. I fan myself with my t-shirt - the momentary ventilation cools my skin but it is still slightly warm when I resume digging. the water had loosened the soil so breaking through the first few inches was easy. Little pebbles and gravel ping against my shoe. I also brush away looser soil with my hands. 

I keep digging. Slamming the shovel into the soil, I also add an extra pressure with my feet and push it a little deeper. More soil, slightly damp. A few more shovelfuls and I hit the wet wet soil. Then I see the squiggles and wiggles. Earthworms!

I love earthworms. The most gentlest of all creatures. Ever since I read about them in high school, I have a soft corner for these creatures. Just after the rains whenever I see them, wherever I see them, I smile. If they are in the path of high foot traffic, I take a stick and move them to the side.

I call out to my daughters - both of them come running. I remove my gloves and gently take my older one's index and guide her to touch it. She squeals and laughs. The younger one moves in and leans on my back and whispers that she wants to touch the gummy worms. I pat her cheek, but don't correct her.

We sit there, looking at the worms.

Tears

 It looks wonderful up there. Hanging beside other works of art, it looks wonderful up there.

A tap on my shoulder; I turn around. "That is a beautiful painting!", exclaims the guest. She is very enthusiastic about the work and very profuse with her compliments. I thank her. I can't stand there any more. As I navigate around the gallery, I see so many other paintings. One particular piece arrests me. I stand in front of it and I can not move. I look deep into the picture. The weave of the color and the depth of the brush strokes are all amazing. I am breathless. 

I immediately turn around and search for mine. It looks amateur and childish. A splotch of colors. I am disgusted by it. I am so angry at myself - I grind my teeth. I am desperate to pull it down, rip it apart. What arrogance did I have displaying it here? What talent did I have? How could I revel in this ability?

I run out of the gallery crying - hot tears spilling on my cheeks. I can almost feel the blood in my lips from squeezing them hard. I lean against the cold stone wall - their iciness provides solace to my fevered body. He comes up to me. "If you feel angry, channel it. If you feel inadequate, get better. If you feel content, that is your triumph. You are allowed to feel all this. You are not an impostor. Learn to work through it." I take his cigarette and let the tears flow; I will get better.

Summer

Heat.

Heat.

I can feel the waves rising up from the earth. The sun is shining in the sky. I looked at it directly. I looked for a few seconds as if willing it to stop providing the heat. My bare feet brush against loose soil and small stones. The earth is cracked. As I look at the cracks, they slowly start resembling the wrinkles on my face; the cracks in my hands. I lean down to grab a handful. The ground is so dry I rise back with dirt under my finger nails. Dirt. How quickly we discard what is useful into something we do not care about. Fleeting... temporary.. but this heat..

Heat.

Heat.

My throat is parched. I looked over the field, shading my eyes against the shining sun. I squint to see the edges of my field. All I can see is the cracked ground - broken, parched, and thirsty. My sigh comes heavy. It comes hot.

Family in the time of COVID

I look at the clock. It is fifteen past six in the evening. I close my laptop, fold my spectacles and arrange my work papers in a neat pile. It has been a long day. The lines between my life and work have started to blur. I am thrown into work as soon as I get up. I miss my commute, don't you?
I go out of my room looking for my family. Slowly collecting them for dinner is something of a ritual now. I look forward to my dinner time, time with my family. My wife is in the gym. I peep in, she sees me in the mirror from the treadmill and signals with all her ten fingers. I smile, nod and blow her a kiss. These past few weeks, our marriage has been more honest, truthful and kinder.
I walk towards my son's room. I knock on his door. He is back from his university and is in the final few months of graduating with a Master's degree in science. No response. I peep into the room. Save for the light from his computer, it is all dark. I see him with a gaming console in his hand and headphones around. He is laughing and talking to the voice in the ether. I tap on his head. He turns around smiling. The smile dims a bit as soon as he sees me, he asks the other person to hold, mutes his mic and says he will be out in a few minutes. Almost at the end of a session he says. A couple of years of ago, he would not have responded at all, choosing to ignore me with a cold glance. Now it is not so bad.
I look for my younger one, my baby. She has always been close to my heart. She is still coming into her own, but her heart is strong. She is in the library. She is looking specifically for any first editions I may have. This is not a side of her that I know. I climb the ladder, grab my cherished copy of "Catcher in the Rye". She thanks me and lays down on the chair, arranges herself around my study table and put a pencil behind her ear. She hands me her phone and has me take a few pictures in various positions of reading. I am confused but oblige her. She looks through them, and picks one to go on Instagram. #mydadismyphotographer #firstedition #library #lightreading. I pull her towards the dining room. She is asking me if I will dance with her for a video...
We take whatever wins we can. Cherish what time we have. We are all in this together, and together we will be strong!

The Photographer

I sit with my laptop in front of me. The multiple coffee cups have left their rings to mark the passage of time. I zoom in to one section of the dark night sky with the milky way in full glory. I adjust the color of a few rocks in the corner. I also spot the flash of another camera in the same corner and Photoshop it out. Death Valley was a beauty and a beast on its own. I enjoyed the beauty and the serenity as much as I loved the experience of taking the pictures.
Photography is my life. My life! From the youngest age, I would take whole rolls of pictures and get them developed. It was an expensive pursuit growing up, putting myself through college learning from the masters. The models that I photographed lived on through my pictures - it was the chameleon that I admired, it was the balloons that I purposefully let float, it was the flowers that bloomed in full colour beautifying the wilderness of Utah. Life was photography and photography was life.
I sit back admiring the photo and I get a call on my phone. Work! For the hours that I spend taking in beauty and life, I grind on reality. "Here is the address.", he says, "Get there quick." I quickly grab my camera and labels and hit the road. The place is swarming. "It is pretty nasty in there", he says, "I don't know how you do it." I shrug and go into the house. A robbery gone wrong is never pretty, but I take those pictures for the police anyway. My art might help catch the beasts that did this. Life is beauty so is death. What they say..beauty in the eyes..

Wait for it!

I finish my set and go down to the bar. The bar tender knows me and signs for me to sit down. I grab my glass and turn to the side. She is sitting there with a martini glass, nibbling on the olive. I decide to try my luck and start a conversation. I clear my throat to grab her attention. She continues nibbling the olive. The only indication that she heard me is that her head is slightly turned to me...very slightly.
"Hi"
Finishes nibbling the olive, drains the last few drops of the drink, takes a deep breath and faces me with a bright smile, almost forced, "Hi."
"So can I get you another drink?"
"Sure!". She looks at the bartender and twirls her finger in a circle in the air. Not the most encouraging of signs, but I persevere.
"Did you see me perform?"
Sipping the drink, "Yup!".
"I perform here regularly every week. Did you like my set?"
"Yup! You are funny and..". I wait for her to complete. She just looks back at me and doesn't finish the sentence.
I try making some more small talk. She is really beautiful and I am pretty sure well on her way to getting sloshed.
She takes a deep breath and says, "Listen! I appreciate the effort. Honestly!". I am reminded of Eva Mendes in Hitch. She continues, "Honestly! It's been a long night and I have been on a dry spell for a long time. So why not?" I am taken aback at her forthrightness. I stammer, "Really?"
"Sure! Why not? You are funny and well..funny. Nothing stopping us."
"Are you sure?", I still ask disbelievingly.
"Yup! If it's good then we both walk away smiling. In the worst case, I become a joke at your next gig."
A few months later
"Let me tell you the worst I've done so far. I met this girl at a bar once...". I get pinched really hard. "Not the joke you want to say at your wedding rehearsal dinner..", she mutters with a twinkle.
I agree, not a joke!

With Coffee on Thanksgiving

Coffee is freedom! I grab my Red Velvet Latte, thank the barista and head out. She reaches for the phone. I glance at her, but make my way out of the shop. People are looking at me as I pass them, but the coffee is nice and warm and I am looking to enjoy it outside.

I go back to my spot, and sit facing the street. The cafe's outdoor umbrellas have heaters installed in them, so I am in a cocoon of warmth. People look at me as they pass by. Hurrying on with their lives, to be with the ones they love.

To have and to hold they say. Thanksgiving is the time to be grateful for the things in your life, they say. Big surprises come in small packages, they say. I put my purse on the table. It's heavy. I breathe in the smell of the coffee. Someone suggested this in office the other day and I have been meaning to try it. It truly smells divine. Coffee is freedom! If I could bottle a few scents forever, it would be rain and coffee. No fresh cut grass, the wet smell puts me off. 

I can hear sirens getting closer by the second. From the sounds, at least four of them! I won't give them trouble. I wait in my seat, aware of the fear and anxiety around me.

I am grateful that I finally broke my shackles, grateful that I finally stood up. Too long, the shadows of oppression bound me, too long have the tears stained my pillows. I kick his foot once more. I pour the coffee on him..blood and coffee mix. Coffee is freedom! I sit patiently absently kicking his foot, smiling...smelling the red velvet and my freedom.