In the park, sitting alone on the simply uncomfortable concrete bench
donated to the city by Eldrich and Claire Blume, I strike a first, a second,
and a third match before successfully lighting a cigarette. I relish the
burn in my lungs and ignore the sun, the breeze rustling the leaves of the
birch tree shading me, and distract myself in the actions of a beetle
worrying a bit of dandelion fluff at my feet. It works oblivious to my
presence, my size beyond the scope of its comprehension; my threat an
abstraction like evolution. So many things that could otherwise occupy my
meditation -the two stubbornly purple iris stalking up in a group of yellow
cousins; the two squirrels barking a corkscrew path around the hickory tree;
the pair of ravens arguing from opposite corners of the common area- but I
am fascinated by the simple workings of a nondescript beetle perfectly
unaware at my feet. When I walk away, I regret, for just a moment, the
crushing sound under my heel, more felt than heard, drowned out by the
spring wind.
Cancer
Robert F. James is a former John Steinbeck Fellow in Creative Writing and currently teaches creative writing and literature at San Jose State University and Gavilan Community College.