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"Green"
and already the leaves have arrived, my doctor, that blur of green you spoke of four years ago thickened while you sat, spread in your chair in the sun, children scuffing bicycles down the alley to the grocery store. it was not really green, you said, but rather a haze of green, a fog of green, a thought of green you could only call light.
I awoke from a dream panicked thinking I'd missed the arrival of the leaves. a landlady was taking me from room to room, each one barren and small and filled with the sound of typewriters. there was a view of a beach in the distance, the encroachment of a wave like a finger, spray hitting the empty shore, a foreign beach the color of dust. the trees were black arms holding up the sky, crookedly. along the sidewalk in front of the building that fine mist, that vague rain of green had gone, and the branches were bent with a new burden of leaves.
four years ago we had word-associated this thought of yours, this green that wasn't there, back when mysteries were still abundant and could be uncovered. yesterday, everything was plain and unbudging as a jug sitting in the sun. the beach was the cover of your shirt, sand, the color of your face new to the sand.
in the morning there was no way of telling if the leaves had come, since there were only buildings, every room a bleak room. the phone rang loudly while you, my doctor, went hunting in the park for the hint of green, the cloud of green you'd held in your mind for four years, the green that was still mysterious and therefore solvable, the green that failed to exist. it breathed along the backs of your thick, white hands as the phone rang in my chest without a sound, and you groped further and further down the beach with the voice of the sands.
—Evelyn Lau
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