The Lime Tree - by Kyle Gaca
Moist, black eyes never gaze to meet the skies and there are no contemplations of Heaven nor Hell. There is only one step. One careful step. Then the one after that.
Without the blink of hesitation and knowing nothing else, opportunity awaits. Cool and wet with collecting dew like polish are feet frozen in time as first light paints her welcome with warmth.
Beyond the hills, gravel is crushing under tires weighted by heavy steel, the low rattle and hum of an untuned truck and a farm dog's single yelp, acknowledged with a twitch from unthreatened ears. Attentive but paying no serious mind. The same gravel crushing under the same tires weighted by the same heavy steal from the same untuned truck and the same farm dog's single yelp as the day prior and the same as the one prior to that. Monotony's favor, clear and predictable expectations.
One step forward purging the world ahead time begins again, confident and hesitant somehow all at once. The world perceived as unwavering risk. Opportunity equal parts caution and assurance on exhibition with that one step forward.
The plan simple, the path direct. So many before travel the same, driven the same evidenced by worn paths, with the cool, wet dew collecting there. A deep breath of brisk air and a quick surveillance of what lies ahead. Another cautious step forward.
Again the truck, adding the slam of a door followed by the farm dog's predictable bark. Far off yet occupying the same space.
The farm dog with his thick mane of filthy, tan fuzz is chained to a Maple that shades a porch attached to a modest home with a long gravel drive. Upon first light's warm welcome, a truck plods it's worn path toward the modest home and the farm dog, gravel crushing under tires weighted by heavy steel with equal parts confidence and caution. A slam of the door and a bark of the dog anticipating familiar hands upon his filthy, tan fuzz. Safe and familiar are the hands that greet him.
In the distance, yet occupying the same space, a farm dog's familiar bark echoes. A flick of the tail signals another step forward.
Routine is not a plan but a series of moments rehearsed and orchestrated many times before carrying out infinitely on and on and on. Every instant is a cog in the machine of existence. The gems of variation unaccounted for, a monotonous system practiced and executed by shear will, not some extraordinary Plan.
A memorized verse
Practiced and rehearsed
A few more steps and a tree.
A Pause. A stretch. A prison of chosen monotony.
Chirps of the mourning birds perched high in the shadows, slowly waking. Grasping for their own necessities, following the sun from dawn until dusk, their own worn, invisible paths. Horizon lines blur, sunrises become sunsets become sunrises again. All indistinguishable, one from the next. There is no difference. No way to differentiate the beginnings from the endings, the sky from the ground. Repetition and pattern.
After the tree there is a hill with a path leading to the basic necessities of life. Abundance for all of life's nourishment. Beyond that even further a safe place to rest and spend a warming afternoon with ignorance and satisfaction. Cautious and confident one foot then the other, lacking variation. A pattern. A dutiful soldier of existence. The repetition of chained moments linked together like ticks on the clock.
Chained to a Maple, confined to his version of safety the farm dog barks again.
Prior to the old, worn path leading over the hill to the basic necessities of life, there is the pause, the stretch and the tree.
Tendrils of mist rise from a deep exhale. Citrus fruit, Chanterelles, Redroot and a hint of coffee on the air, one deep breath takes it all in. More tendrils of mist pour out of deflating lungs.
Just ahead the trail moves forward. A long stretch. More steps with many to follow, then stops, turns, a question mark looming in the suddenly impregnated air that surrounds. Pawing the ground, a freshly fallen fruit from the tree that's passed by every day without hesitation is suddenly noticed. A tree that is simply overlooked each and every day on the path leading over the hill. A tree painted with a pattern of small, green fruit. Inspecting the lime with a cold, wet nose, piecing a puzzle together, connecting dots, nuzzling it down a small decline. Playfully following, pawing and nuzzling a quiet dance is underway. Engaging in the thorny branches above, more ripe fruit fall to the ground as a steadier pace of exhaled mist fills the quiet, unoccupied space. Surprise. Excitement. Something new. Something different. A break in the pattern. A deep breath of fresh, chilly air.
Exhale.
The farm dog barks feverishly as if engaged in the same uprising moment but still very far away. Taking quick notice, the dance is over. The moment lost in the haze of the ascending sun. With more confidence than ever before, the path's pull is strong.
For a moment in time the distant farm dog is rendered silent. For a fleeting moment the tethered chain of life's mechanism sits idle and time stands still, but like every deep breath, an exhale follows. As quickly as the true glimpse of freedom is felt, the tendrils of it's mist escape to fill the air. The machine's cadence restored.
And on it goes.
