The Burden of Fossils
Gay Brewer
So you want to be a relic of the
earth? Your actions suggest so.
The first shower this week,
the smoothed hair, that last clean
shirt. The steep walk to Moj-car
pueblo as usual. Head down,
heaving strides, sweat and blood.
Whew. But a few cool minutes
on the village square bring you
together. As you study the
Andalucan landscape - receding
mountains ahead, sea to the right -
the men begin their afternoon.
A single pair, then another, then
clumps splitting and regrouping
like atoms. Calmete. It's not your
time yet. Soon the women arrive
in their dresses, the square fills
with a quiet energy. Still you wait.
Your finest quality is endurance,
so quit pacing. The Spaniards
break, return to couples, split
again and go. The next Saturday
they return. You get comfortable.
After a few months your shirt
doesn't look so nice, your nails
curl into obscene question marks.
In a year skin drips from the face,
revealing a lurid grin. Too much
sun will do that. Then the old man
is sent in, bends with a grunt -
Jesus, so much garlic with lunch . . .
when will he get his final rest? -
tosses your bits into the truck.
And as you slide off with the load,
your sudden irrational dread is that
this is not the archeology site.
That peculiar smell. But you go
with your smile, wave adios as a
finger cracks off. Back in the hole.
