Dirt

The new owners wanted to update the landscaping. They took out the overgrown bush, laid new mulch, bought bags of stone to line the garden beds. The last step was to replace the walkway from the street to the building. Landscapers dug up dirt and left piles on the sidewalk. 

The new walkway covered the smoothed out dirt, finishing the project. But the dirt piles sat, awaiting pickup. One week, two, a month. The owners bought caution tape and looped it around the piles, tying it to trees and hand rails.

No. 167

Saint Alphonsus

They erected statues to the saint in the church parking lot. Around these, the church had placed pallets, trash cans, shovels, toppled ladders, and abandoned planks of wood. The stone statues teetered on the edge of parking blocks, his arms outstretched to the passersby on the sidewalk. Through a chain link fence I pressed my finger as far as it could go.

No. 164

Garden

Outside the elementary school the class of 2023 planted a garden. The plaque commemorating this noted the students’ fundraising to purchase southwest flora, plants that were built to survive the climate. 

Walking past it now, the flower beds are dusty and brown, the plants within them withered and parched. One succulent has grown large, and the rest look ready to blow away in the next gust of wind.

No. 156

“Tow Me”

Abandoned car collects dust and tickets. Tail in the red the traffic cop noticed it, finally, after months of sitting idle. Nettles caked into the dirt. Around them passersby scrawled phrases, always from the car’s point-of-view, as if in its decay each felt moved to speak for it.

No. 146

Diurnal

Afternoon, late spring. A neighbor’s overgrown garden sits in the shade, chimney covered with a tarp for months, chipped bricks piled at its base. From the weeds a coyote escapes, stepping gingerly between the plants and debris. The animal thin—it moves slowly, pauses to turn and look at us with a sense of disorientation behind its eyes. The sun shines off its pale grey coat as it returns to the shadows.

No. 088

Fern

On a narrow balcony, a sallow fern grew out of a plastic pot. The balcony had no door; instead, it ran along the side of a building, accessible by two windows. From the outside, it looked like they opened inward and not very far. I imagined the renter, or the owner, purchasing the fern, young and verdant, placing it on the balcony to make the building inviting. I imagined, too, the accumulated weight of passing days that obscured the needs of the plant. Upon initial recognition, they would have tried watering it, bringing it back to life. Too far gone—instead, the fern was left forlorn in the shade to wilt and die. 

No. 056

Disposal

An overturned Christmas tree juts out of a garbage can in the middle of April. I give them the benefit of the doubt: it can be easy to lose track of time amid everything else. In haste they left the string of lights and garland that shimmered in the spring sunlight. An uncanny shiver runs down my spine: I wonder where the April Christmas trees are in my life. Perhaps it’s too late to dispose of them.

No. 044