-^-for posterity-^-

jack and i sit on a bench in the middle of a large, dirt field. we are shaded by a towering tree that drops black bean pods. they fall and litter the ground. the sun makes its way through the branches of the tree and finds our arms and warms them nicely. the wind picks up clouds of dust and moves them around at random. stray dogs appear busier than us.

we feel old and tired. we feel strange and wonderful. at our feet is a small, shortwave radio that picks up global bbc broadcasts.

a mans voice pushes through the static and sooths us with his oh, so intelligent sounding british accent. every once in a while we have to adjust the frequency because we keep picking up radio stations from cambodia. we patiently sit and listen to live broadcasts from their representatives in the field. live updates that are interrupted by sporadic gunfire.

some construction workers pass us with their shirts off. you can see their ribs but they are strong. their skin is dark like light chocolate and olives mixed together. they range in age from twenty years old to upwards of forty. they look at us quickly but continue to move along carrying their tools. i think about this country only thirty odd years ago. i can’t stop thinking about what happened. i try to push it out of my head but it doesn’t seem possible. my mind reverts back to what happened time and time again like a moth and our porch light.

the workers move along peacefully and the radio continues to blabber about this or that reiterating what has already been said ten times. the wind moves peacefully and the dust falls. the black pods of beans continue to fall silently and cause us no harm. the dogs go about their business.