That morning the sky didn’t fall, but had it, it would have fallen into the sea. The dogmen danced around a bundle of dried milky green weeds, the biggest dogman yowling like a banshee, the littlest dogman caught in a sweetbriar of fichus branches. Lela met the dogmen when she was just past her twelfth birthday. She bumped into the biggest dogman on Ships Day, a day gray with clouds and the smell of rotten breadfruit. She politely excused herself and walked in the opposite direction, the biggest dogman shifting his largeness to let her pass. The next day Lela found a dead bird under a pyre of blackened leaves, its neck wrung like a slough rag. She wrapped the bird in her kerchief and placed it in the earth next to the biggest tree she could find. That night the biggest dogman slept beneath the biggest tree in the forest, a quisling mewing into his ear ‘…piss, mamma…piss, mamma…piss…’, the sky blacker than tappet grease.
Lela had the counting disease. She counted each step she took, each mouthful of food she ate, the branches on the trees and the stars in the night sky. She counted until her she couldn’t count any more, then counted again, over and over until the counting took on a life of its own. She counted the number of letters in a word, the number of sentences in a page, the number of pages in a book. She counted things that counted for very little or nothing at all. She counted each step counted against each stride, each stride counted against each meter counted against each city block. She counted the number of syllables in a word, then counted backwards to a hundred just to be on the safe side. She counted upon rising and upon going to bed. She counted in church, every word the priest uttered. She counted apples and pears, candy bars and bars of soap, the grocer giving her a troubling stare. She counted the number of people in line in front of her and to the back of her. She counted the time it took to unpack her groceries and place them on the shelf. She counted until the sun set and rose again. She counted the number of times she counted to one-hundred backwards, counting forwards when she tired of counting backwards.
Lela had the counting disease. She counted each step she took, each mouthful of food she ate, the branches on the trees and the stars in the night sky. She counted until her she couldn’t count any more, then counted again, over and over until the counting took on a life of its own. She counted the number of letters in a word, the number of sentences in a page, the number of pages in a book. She counted things that counted for very little or nothing at all. She counted each step counted against each stride, each stride counted against each meter counted against each city block. She counted the number of syllables in a word, then counted backwards to a hundred just to be on the safe side. She counted upon rising and upon going to bed. She counted in church, every word the priest uttered. She counted apples and pears, candy bars and bars of soap, the grocer giving her a troubling stare. She counted the number of people in line in front of her and to the back of her. She counted the time it took to unpack her groceries and place them on the shelf. She counted until the sun set and rose again. She counted the number of times she counted to one-hundred backwards, counting forwards when she tired of counting backwards.
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