Diary of a jib

It’s like I’m not even here.

Today They brought me to a house. I won’t say He. To me, He no longer counts as a He. He—that is, They—carried my parts as if I were so much equipment. Throughout my assemblage, They blabbed to the AD. Nothing about how easily I went together, just silly chatter about the weather (“So much rain!”) and the neighborhood (“What do they call this area?”) and the AD’s vertigo (“No kidding?”). I’m sure the universe is the wiser, thanks to those insights.

I held myself apart, daring Him – I mean, Them – to fit my base into the spider dolly, defying the twist of the lug bolt. Not long ago, at times like this, all the chatter would be of me. Of the gift of my perfect balance after all those years with What’s-it’s-name. The gift of my compactness – you’d never guess, when you saw me in pieces, that I could span 20 feet. The gift of me. Now those days are deader than an XL1.

When I was fully formed, They left, trailing his witty repartee like a docked tail. “See ya.” I spent the evening alone. A spotted dog appeared briefly. It stepped over my feet to get to a bed tucked in the corner. Surely I’m the tallest, widest span of metal and steel ever to grace the inside of this shack, but the dog gave not a backward glance.

Two theys came in and sat on the couch. They watched an episode of Friday Night Lights, which doesn’t even use one of me. Yawn. One they left and the other read by a dim light. It’s very strange, the lights they use for living.

I will try to rest, and hope tomorrow will be better. Not to expect, for I’ve learned something about expectations in these last few months. But hope, surely, is free to anyone fool enough – and long enough – to reach for it.

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