Cinquefoil
by Salvatore Difalco
My apartment building vanished behind me. I thought, everything was made to be. Even I could be swayed to believe this in principle. Ladies and gentlemen dressed for a gala paraded down the street. They snubbed me. Music is mysterious. I was afraid I had forgotten something.
They say that you are the median of the five people with whom you spend the most time. I think of the cinquefoil and its five petals, or fingers. Am I one of the fingers, or the whole flower? Ha. There is a question. People joined me on my walk — that is to say, voices joined me on my walk. Perhaps not those five of whom I am an median. I recognized my mother’s voice among them. She counted, certainly, but I have not spoken to her for ten years. Reasons can beguile the thick-skulled man. Look at him in that hideous yellow sweater. Does he even have a mother?
People can change. I am not proof of that, for I never change. I have worn size 34-34 blue jeans since high school. I eat the same foods almost every day: bread, cheese, and fruit. I say the same things over and over again, and have been saying those things since college. Does this suggest that the people around me have also resisted change?
Since college I have failed at everything I have tried to do. Am I the only one to blame for this? People fought as I passed the plaza. I heard men weeping. The weather that evening, mild verging on cool. A breeze blew away the bugs. Do you like fireworks? Italians are good with fireworks. Why mention that?
Codes have their reasons. That is not to say they are conscious, but some degree of consciousness may exist in everything. People who crack codes often wear glasses. If it seems an impertinence, play it back. We are trying to create worlds here, not destroy them.
Some idiot with a high-powered motorcycle whines up and down the street as I make my way. What does he want? Do I know him? Is he one of the five people forming the cinquefoil of my life? Why does it take five? What if I don’t have five people in my life? Where am I? Hovering over everything like a spirit. Thoughts of death are never far, during my contemplations. Wheels spin. One wheel spins. Then a shoe turns up on someone’s lawn.
What was I forgetting? I have forgotten now. Tapping the head won’t help. Trepanning might. My hands ache. I believe arthritis is setting into my bones. I’ve read that cinquefoil tea is an excellent anti-inflammatory and helps with memory. Why am I making a case for cinquefoil? I don’t know. I’m back at the apartment building. It hasn’t changed, at least not that much. But I’ve changed, at least this much.