"Dirt," 4/28/08

Racing from the cover of maples and poplars, I bound up the porch steps and burst through the door. What's happened to you, my mother asks as I dart to the garage and back, hacksaw in hand. You're rusty, she says, her word for red dirt like war paint on my knees and elbows. I'm making a trail, I say, grabbing a cake to take to the work site. But she's already scrubbing an elbow with a dishcloth and I sigh, wondering what mysterious grudge everyone has against dirt. After all, it's the thing we're made of, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Adam and Eve weren't formed of soap, after all, and besides, it's my element--the sign of the bull, making a mess, tumbling across the zodiac. And flowers. How could we marvel at their tiny bursts of color if we couldn't stand the sight of dirt? Also, all the best fairy-tale things are of earth, the Elves and the rainbow-eyed unicorns. And the children, at work in their domains of sticks, mud, and vines, creating new worlds by the sweat of their brows every summer, the badge of their industry to be found on rusty knees, elbows, hands, and noses.