1 AM in the morning and the garage light is yellow and your uncle and aunt, or almost aunt even though they're not married, are smoking cigarettes making the black velvet sky blue like ash. And they're telling you about their baby and the tragedy and triumph of birth, and you're leaning against their smooth car with a couple packs of marlboro's on the fender, arms crossed and head nodding as you listen to them open. You didn't expect this, or regret. Your uncle opens his palms and cradles his arms together, holding a baby that is not there. They put her in your arms, he says, and she's so small and fragile, and you just think, I better not bleep this up. You want to cry. You tuck his words away and repeat them like a prayer. His cradled hands, the shimmer of fire on the driveway before it's extinguished. There's an intense beauty and bittersweetness to this moment, as all moments are when there is no beginning, no ending, no yesterday or tomorrow but only the present, only the sweet thickness of smoke while everyone lies asleep, only the arms holding a baby that is not there, only the inhales and exhales and the way stories tumble out of you when you're open to the sky, vulnerable. And you think, how can I leave and in the exact instant, the reasons you need to stay are the reasons you must go.
1 AM in the morning and your uncle and aunt are speaking and you and the whole world are listening and waiting for the first syllable and when they come the words burn the air like fire, and every breath is a please, and every shot of ash in your lungs is a step on eggshells. Don't lose this. Don't break this.
Beautiful.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
What I will do the rest of the summer.
I will read through the entire archives of The New Yorker. Or at least try. Devour whole entire pages of fiction and poetry and prose and truth. I will try to hear their voices without adding my own. I will not go hungry.
I will eat fresh peaches once a week. Soft ones. Hard ones. Sweet ones with the juices running on your arms brown from the sun. My arms are not brown. I do not tan. I am pale, freckled on my face if I'm lucky. I will eat peaches, even if they have no taste.
I will go swimming again. I will wear my black bikini. I will shriek with something called confidence when I go under the cold clearness of the waves. I will not shrink. Maybe a little. I will open my eyes underwater and pray for a fish to nibble my toes and when it does with its mouth sucking and small like sand, I will be still.
I will walk to a dairy queen and get a large icecream cone, just plain vanilla, and eat it outside. Even if there are mosquitoes. In my mind, the night is blue soot and tastes like smoke. There are red benches in front of our local icecream shop. I sat on them when I was little. I will sit again.
I will wake up in time to catch the sun. This is a difficult process. Too early and the sky is like silt in your eyes. Too late and you miss the smudging. I will wrap myself in a blanket and sit on the front stoop and see the sun burn the sky open if I time it right.
I will eat alone in a nice restaurant all by myself. I will wear my little black dress, my favorite one. Maybe fancy underwear. I will ask for a table on the roof, overlooking the street with the well-dressed people hurrying towards their definition of home. There will be yellow lights strung on vines as the evening dims. I will order sparkling water and drink it like wine. Eat oily pasta slowly, tear into soft crusted bread. Treat myself to dessert. Love myself and let it look like nurturing.
I will spend all day reading books in my favorite coffee shop. Or visit four cafes and order something different at each. A book each building. Here a cappuccino with Homekeeping. The table by the window, a cold press, The Maytrees. So it goes. The last I will stay in the corner chair until closing.
I will go berry picking and bring nothing home besides the stains on my fingers. I will not practice patience. I will reach until thorns remind impermanence. Blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries. In my grandpa's backyard is a boysenberry tree. I will search the patch until I can name by memory.
I will eat fresh peaches once a week. Soft ones. Hard ones. Sweet ones with the juices running on your arms brown from the sun. My arms are not brown. I do not tan. I am pale, freckled on my face if I'm lucky. I will eat peaches, even if they have no taste.
I will go swimming again. I will wear my black bikini. I will shriek with something called confidence when I go under the cold clearness of the waves. I will not shrink. Maybe a little. I will open my eyes underwater and pray for a fish to nibble my toes and when it does with its mouth sucking and small like sand, I will be still.
I will walk to a dairy queen and get a large icecream cone, just plain vanilla, and eat it outside. Even if there are mosquitoes. In my mind, the night is blue soot and tastes like smoke. There are red benches in front of our local icecream shop. I sat on them when I was little. I will sit again.
I will wake up in time to catch the sun. This is a difficult process. Too early and the sky is like silt in your eyes. Too late and you miss the smudging. I will wrap myself in a blanket and sit on the front stoop and see the sun burn the sky open if I time it right.
I will eat alone in a nice restaurant all by myself. I will wear my little black dress, my favorite one. Maybe fancy underwear. I will ask for a table on the roof, overlooking the street with the well-dressed people hurrying towards their definition of home. There will be yellow lights strung on vines as the evening dims. I will order sparkling water and drink it like wine. Eat oily pasta slowly, tear into soft crusted bread. Treat myself to dessert. Love myself and let it look like nurturing.
I will spend all day reading books in my favorite coffee shop. Or visit four cafes and order something different at each. A book each building. Here a cappuccino with Homekeeping. The table by the window, a cold press, The Maytrees. So it goes. The last I will stay in the corner chair until closing.
I will go berry picking and bring nothing home besides the stains on my fingers. I will not practice patience. I will reach until thorns remind impermanence. Blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries. In my grandpa's backyard is a boysenberry tree. I will search the patch until I can name by memory.
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