THAT PATCH OF GRASS
by Philip Kuan

The skinny man, kneeling on all fours, was shaking uncontrollably. His posture shattered shards of ennui across the lawn, litter beneath an oak tree so thoroughly apathetic that one would never have doubted that it was, well, just a tree. Clearly, this man needed to be raked. 

Cancerous disappointment re-stained his awkward feelings, wafting towards the house, like lazy garbage, beating intrusively against the window shutting. And as I focused upon the suds on my hands, his fleeting glances hurtled past my skin, mistimed leaps unable to latch onto wrinkles already missing from my careful, stoic expression. Clearly he wished to be breastfed, and I was the one to ignore him. 

Only when certain he’d turned back to his palms and sleeves did I look up, surrendering to that which I found so repulsive, that reek of tacit resignation from a man being stabbed by memories. I didn’t need the etchings on his face to recognize a man stranded in an ocean, misguided enough to dive for rescue from below, instead of treading water. As others would’ve done.  

“Is that where Nammy is?” The little girl stood beside the open door, and as I dried my hands, and walked over, and reluctantly shared the moment while petting her head, this man continued to pound the ground with fists in some meaningful frustration, meaningless to me. “Sweetie, let’s go talk to your daddy,” I decided.

I didn’t bother waiting as we traversed the yard. “Sir, take your daughter. And leave now.” The man, not quite getting the message, got up with a moan. Taking her hand, he started towards his car, halting only to ask if he could come again. Of course he could not, I insisted.

Walking back towards the house, I glanced at that patch of grass, and hoped to God that it was just a dog.