S.D. Stewart
Panda A large stuffed panda rots in the alley behind our house. It has no eyes and proffers to the world an amorphous bulge at its crotch. It migrates along a 10-foot square perimeter, its dark purple fur wearing thin at the limbs. At night I lay awake and pretend I cannot hear the couple next door screaming at each other. In the morning we all make nice outside and pretend nothing happened. I like their cat, but we share a wall and nothing else in common. This morning I left the house and the panda was sitting upright against a concrete wall, facing a tiny firing squad of ants. When I returned, the panda was gone and so were the ants. Someone had dragged the body away and left no evidence behind. In my attic bedroom is a built-in wardrobe. Inside the wardrobe is a tiny door. When I open it I see into the couple’s attic. A stack of dusty paperbacks sits in view, mostly thrillers. I thought I’d find darker secrets than this. Life in the alley is hard. I peered out the window one day last week and saw a guy pissing on a telephone pole. It’s no place for a stuffed panda. A week later the man next door moves out. He takes the thrillers. Now I lay awake at night staring at the stars out my window, listening to the woman cry in her attic and hoping the panda found its peace.
24 /
issue10 UFM