Ash. It seemed right that it should be ash, but there was no burning. The word ‘ash’ invites all the puerile puns that link ‘ash’ to ‘ass.’ Ain’t that a kick in the ash, and all that.
But ‘ass’ might suggest the elephant’s putative Other, and what I want reduced to ash is BOTH. The ash should be ass ash as well as elephant ash.
It’s at this point in the thought that Bruce stirs again on the porch. He sleepily scans the fields within his purview, and growls: “No elephants. No asses. Livestock. LIVE-stock. not dead mascots.”
He’s talking to me, and of course I am there, even though I’m not there in a standard sense. But he’s looking at me, in a way. What hath Sarah to do with the ash?
Bruce smiles crookedly. “Patience, It said.” He closes his eyes and begins to nod again, but whispers. “Patience.”
Pat. The first three letters of patience. I wonder where Pat is?