Lamma Island, 10:03AM – Wet Chill.

Entry 70

They dig out the tall grass and a few trees from the swamp above the crossroads at the bottom of the hill. A well is uncovered. Now they are filling in the swamp with sand, to level it out. Earlier this summer there were laminated signs hung up to say that the swamp is government land. Government, I imagine it is difficult to acknowledge that word, especially if you are five generations deep in this island.

I watch a VV dump sand the color of brown sugar over the mud and exposed roots. The landlord stands close by. Son of farmers. Middle-aged. Bald. A cream Ralph Lauren polo shirt with the collar flipped up. Brown loafers. One of the patriarchs you see hanging around the estate agents on our island. A potato of a man. A source of nourishment and comfort beneath the skin. Drop him in the ground and he will sprout. Just what every patriarch wants, a legacy.

At night, the smell of cold earth, savory, not the sour smell of summer. The well is covered again. I wish I had thrown something down it, a wish or a coin. I like the idea of something being dug up long after the houses are gone, my own legacy, nameless, childless, perhaps valueless, when the land has returned to swamp. 

Instead, I buy some crypto.