The Iceberg on the Counter

By Richard Davidson

He was overwhelmed with the breath of the new day. From the first hours of sunup, he had felt at peace with this place, with himself. That morning he drank in the delicious fragrance of love growing all around him, before he stepped into his car so nimbly, unafraid of the horrible grind of work.

And what of work? Not much to tell, really, cast under a flourescent sky, all is simply dull perception, enhanced by the promise of a steady paycheck, and a rapidly growing promise of the weekend soon to come. Everyone's your best friend on a cigarette break, and the warm, heartfelt company of strangers who share your table and desperately try to forge an interesting conversation are so dear to your heart until 5:00.

That beautiful experience laying before him was too much to tell an ordinary bystander. There were still some hours of daylight left, beckoning him hungrily into the sweetness of his garden.

In one bush, he had ignored a weed sprouting through the edge, and in the absence of his care, it had grown strong. Carefully avoiding the prickly spines of the raspberry bush in question, he reached in and grabbed the ludicrously big weed by the very base, and out it came by the roots. Again soft soil had assured him an easy victory. He looked thoughtfully at the weed, only two feet taller than him, and for a moment, was sad for the loss of this life, impressive as it had been.

He threw it uncerimoniously onto his compost heap, under the rusty old gas tank still attached to a pump labeled "Premium" in the corner of the yard, and continued scouting for anything violating the somewhat orderly nature of the overall picture. The mother cat came out of the bushes to see if there was a threat to her kittens, living deep inside the dark miniature jungle.

She used to be wild, and though he had never liked cats, this one had taken to him, and ocassionally brought the three kittens out for him to have a peek at. She circled him a few times, as if contemplating rubbing his leg, but decided not today, and sat lazily on the sidewalk.

Strangely, many co-workers had asked him to come party tonight after work, but they couldn't have imagined his big plans. Here now, lost in the vagueries of a softly lit Indiana sky, surrounded by birds, bugs, flowers and breeze, his life was spilt in color across every inch of the palette growing freely for so many miles.

He went into the house for a moment, looking for a cold drink, and remembered he'd left a Frapuccino in the freezer last night. His wife had noticed before she went to work, and had left it in the fridge, and he had put it on the counter to melt.

"That iceberg on the counter's probably not going to melt tonight!" he thought, wondering when again he would hear the phrase. Knowing he never would, he walked deliberately up the stairs, logged on to this website, and wrote this story.

He sure knew how to live...

Talkback: Post Reply | View replies (2)