Talked to Mercedes and Charli today. Made me homesick for NY, which is a weird sensation.

“We miss you!” Mercedes declared.
“Come back please!” I heard Charli holler out.

“You’re on speakerphone, by the way. When ARE you coming back?”

“I miss you too! I am not sure about a return date, but I need to figure it out ASAP. The longer I’m here, the more I fear I’ll never leave, and I cannot stay here, all the salads are made with iceberg lettuce,”I joked. “Tell me, what is new in Brooklyn?”

“Oh, you know, summer stuff: beach, oysters after the beach, lots of iced coffee, trying not to melt —it’s starting to get muggy! The fig trees are blooming, and the snap peas I planted are starting to look ripe.”
Mercedes has bucolic yearnings and satiates them as best she can in the city.

“We’ve been hanging out at McCarren pool during the free concerts on Sundays, it’s a lot of fun. There’s a frickin’ slip-n-slide! Aaaand lots of cuties to peep.” Charli chimed in. Her yearnings are much easier to satiate in the city.

“Oh right, yes, they are so fun! We had a barbeque after last Sunday’s Les Savy Fav show. I made a berry pie with fresh basil that was really nice. Krissie brought over some dudes she met at the pool, and we whooped it up till dawn.” Mercedes recapped.

“I have my eyes set on the guitar player,” added Charli.

In the distance, I heard our creaky door swing.

“Oh. Shea just got here. Oh, and he’s with Mike.”
“Hey, guys. I’m talking to Sophi.” Mercedes called out.

Suddenly, I heard Shea’s vowel stretching Cali accent.
“Sup babe, how’s Mormon country?”
For some reason, I was sure he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“In a word, arid. How are you guys?”
“We’re cool, just picking up some guitar strings I left here. Heads up, Krissie thinks she’s getting some chickens for the backyard. Gonna come home to some real chicken shit.”

“Oh, yes, Krissie found a chicken coop on Craigslist that she almost bought. I told her the soil is too toxic and we’d have to build out a whole platform and cage. Plus, I think Josie might murder them. You know she’s a huntress.” Mercedes explained, referring to her lioness-like cat.
I look over to my grandma’s porch and recall her, all the years of my childhood, sweeping up chicken shit.

“God-damned chickens keep pooping all over my porch!”

She hated those chickens. I loved them, or rather, I loved going out into the orchard with my grandpa and gathering eggs. They never laid eggs in the coop, rebel chickens. They’d nest everywhere but: the young elm trees, the tool shed, the old bus. We’d take extra care to examine the weight and heat from each one, indicators of life inside. You were wise, Grandpa Jed taught me, to leave one egg behind to ensure the hens would roost there again.

“But, how great would it be if we had our own fresh eggs?” Mused Mercedes.

“Ew. I’m not cleaning up any of that chicken shit, no way, yuck,” sneered Charli.

We ended the call with wishes for a swift reunion and promises to keep me up to speed on chicken and boy developments.

I plopped my body down on the island of grass that made up my grandparents lawn. To my left, rusted wagon wheels sunk half-way in, a supporting trellis to my grandmothers pink and yellow tea roses. The horizon vast and at this evening hour, the sky had begun its pre-show, the blues yielding slightly to the gradually retiring sun. A warm-up act for the main event: sunsets over the valley.

The grass was a bionic green in the low angled sunlight. A color I’d come to know and expect here. I lay for a very long time in the healthy blades, inhaling in gulps, the pungent earth. I could feel the warmth of the soil radiate up, out, and through me. A sincere urge to dig my nails in and pull the earth around me like a fur throw overwhelmed. Instead, I relished in the dander and pelage as I relented my corpse to the ground.