June 2010 — Flea Market Zombies

You walk down the street, broken-down Ford half a mile back, sticky heat bearing down on you, thickening your blood. She walks at your side, freckled, with a soft southern drawl. Nonchalant, used to the weather here, but then she doesn’t have your dark skin drawing in the sun’s wrathful rays.

You stop for a minute to rest under the shade of a tree that’s caught your eye. Weary limbs bow toward the ground, some bare as winter in the midst of summer’s richness. It’s cool under the tree. Chilly. You step back into the sun, shade your eyes with your hand and give the thing a good long glance. The goose bumps don’t go away, even while you sweat.

“Is this one of those trees, you know, with the strange southern fruit?” you ask, brushing the scabbed bark with your thumb. She shrugs. You didn’t need to ask, you look at the dead branches and you know. It has a story to tell, and though you weren’t there, it promises you might have been, you can be. You close your eyes, and you see it, and yourself, part of its shadow, lost in its shade.

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