| In the heat of the day, a man swings his sledgehammer and it hits the driveway with a thud. And again. He grunts. The sun is directly above him as he works, breaking the concrete open inches at a time until he kneels and moves the fragments away. It takes him hours to reveal just a few square feet of earth. His shirt is dark where he sweats and white lines on the cotton mark the boundaries of where his sweat of the previous day has dried. Day after day he continues with a thud and a grunt and a thud. Sunlight cuts into his face. The temperature rises but he seems not to notice as he slams his hammer down. He is clearing the way for more concrete; concrete of a more elegant type that matches the new stucco finish on the house to which the driveway leads. It is a house with new windows, new doors, a newly laid floor with tiles reminiscent of Mexico, which is where the man comes from although he is not invited to walk on this floor which would remind him of home. Yes, home where the fruit breaks open at a touch and the houses are old. This house is new and growing newer all the time. When the driveway is complete, a new and shining automobile will park on it. The locks on the doors will have the strength of a conquistador’s fist. There will be security alarms connected to every window and a lamp sensitive to movement that will flash an unforgiving white light on the man should he, once he has finished hammering, ever return. |
