Tyre on the Diamond
Every day, from my window, I see men in coloured shirts standing against the green backdrop of the baseball diamond down the hill.
The men move so quickly compared to the soft swaying trees and sturdy houses beyond them. They bank and dive sharply, like neon gnats or fruit flies, all seeming the same; red tops, white legs, with black dots on top where their brains are kept.
In the winter, except for a few weeks in January, the field was empty. But, one day, I looked out this very window, and saw a large black tyre standing strangely on its side in left field. There was no context, no clues about how it got there, no explanations from anyone who had seen it arrive. It was there, I perceived it being there, and that was the end of it. I both enjoyed and was frustrated by the absurdity of the scene, as I was unable to stop wondering Why the tyre was there. I could not ever have an answer, I knew; it was there, and that was that.
Every day, regardless, the Why kept up its incessant scratching behind my eyes, as I gazed groggily at the ellipse and its long black shadow. By the second week of the tyre’s stay on the baseball green, it became a familiar fixture. This did not, however, reduce the unsatisfying feeling of mystery it injected into my mind every morning. Surely, I thought, it can’t stay there forever. Some way, some how, some day, some one would have to deal with it. I wanted to see that moment, so I could salvage any bit of context, anything to quell the discomfort of that surreal curiosity.
One day I woke up and it was gone, and there was nothing else to do but to forget about it entirely.