Mint Piss

I pissed each day on my mother’s mint bush. Sat trapped on a makeshift island, my parents’ country home cut off on all sides by water. As they were in California I shot from the bottom of our country to its top. Texas turned to North Dakota. There I tended a sump pump battling an overgrown river. Flood water spilled from banks, to yard, to woods, to road. It enveloped the land and soon I couldn’t leave.

Each morning I stepped to the bit of yard still there. What remained was no more than adjacent grass, a thin strip of driveway, and a low gravel walk to a woods bound building. I had a boat for emergencies but for now this was all the earth I could touch. I trotted the routes ’til they turned to routine.

Twice a day I’d enact my stroll, peering to ground for fresh prints in the still melting snow. Scan for geese and ducks swimming through trees, the woodchuck who made its home among evergreens. In time I’d circle the building to search for grub holes from skunks and raccoons. Have my shotgun at the ready in case one still feasted from its buffet. All of this took twenty minutes, twice that if I circled slow.

I read and watched TV, aimlessly scrolled the internet. Two weeks to kill before I could even slink out with a pickup. Didn’t feel stir crazy, just nowhere to go. Enjoyed the solitude. Entered stasis.

I decided to use this time to cleanse myself with fasting and water. Saunas and strolls. No booze, no junk, but couldn’t kick caffeine. I’d stocked up on La Croix and so pissed often, seeing no reason to not step outdoors and go. No one to see me. Fresh air across my cock.

Each day I pissed off the brick step into my mother’s garden bed. Just one of many. Streamed salty steam onto her mint bush. It grows back each year but for now was clipped bare. I seeded its sprouts with piss. Gallons of hot shots. Dozens of applications.

In time the mint grew, a month passed, and my parents returned. I left on a kayak and paddled to Canada, water still high from flood. When I returned I holed up in bed, nursing an injury before leaving to backpack the badlands. Ten days and 150 miles on foot. I dreamed of that escape, to leave this land now that it was no longer an island.

At home each day my mother drank sweet tea outside, her drink adorned with mint leaves. She plucked from her plant to freshen the house, to ward off rodents, to spritz our lunchtime water. The first time she poured my drink I noticed the green atop my glass. Thought of what I’d done and shrugged. I drank my drink down, sucking its leaves, but now stepped out to woods when the time came to piss.

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