fence post

Whitewashed fence post runs for miles forever under the expansive Oklahoma sky, where clouds billow thick and dissipate, always teasing a storm. The sky, reflected orange from the sunset and I feel like a pinprick in an extensive patch of needlework. Alone for miles, standing, gazing up. A thick, hot wind blows my way and almost knocks my baseball cap off my head. I grip the visor to secure it and turn like Link in Windwaker to the direction of the wind, as though I have willed it, controlled it, made it so. Dust picks up from the dirt road and swirls in some Great Depression-like dance it remembers from the desperation and desolation of 80+ years ago. I’ve never left this great frying pan-shaped state. I have never been snorkling underwater in the ocean to tickle fishes and swim with dolphins and smile and take memorable photos. After the howl of the wind dies down, I listen to the silence; There are no East Coast cars and traffic, no hum of voices or tires. The ground is parched and in need of a great drink. I can feel the dust caked on my skin from sweat and a hard day’s work in the fields (i campi). I grab a red handkerchief out of my pocket and wipe my hands. Sitting on the ground in my dusty, bleach-stained jeans, I cross my legs and wait for rain. The rain will wash me clean, absolve me of all past and future sins. It will make me forget and cool me down when I become too hot inside my head. But then, my aural blank canvas is broken and there is a discernible hum and rumble. It is an eighteen wheeler truck from the farm. My brother is driving it. Waving my handkerchief, I wave him down and he slows. Standing quickly, I get in the cab on the passenger side and bask in the too-cold air conditioning, letting the sweat and dirt cool and cake on my neck, forehead, and arms. I close my eyes and press my right cheek against the window as he puts the car in gear and we rumble off into the sunset. There is a tinny reception of country radio, but so quiet I cannot make out the singer.