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Wrought with Rust

It took me back to a garden party, in a place long forgotten, where I locked into conversation with a stranger. The stranger turned his head and looked at a folding lawn chair a few feet away from us. He stated that all things return to the earth. I asked what he meant, not following the machinations of his inner workings.

The aluminum frame folding chairs sat scattered throughout the backyard. Pitted spots gave way to rust on a vast majority of the frames. A few white specks remained interspersed with the overwhelming reddish-orange growth on the matte silver frames.

He reiterated that the legs of the chair sat directly on the ground and were, by default, beginning their degradation process. The chair was well on its way to becoming rust. It would melt into the ground and return to the little particles from whence it came. Cyclical, he said, raising his glass. He walked away.

His exodus left me wondering if the nylon straps returned to their original state.

I watched the back of his shirt flutter, hanging loosely from the back of his trousers.


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