The grey came in cold and pressing, clouds touching the rocks on the beach below with their wetness, leaving us on the shore damp, and chilled. I parked with my headlights pointed east to the city line, and looked north out at the melting and moonly expanse of ice and slush and garbage, floating in the quietly thawing lake. There was no point on the horizon where land or water became sky, or cloud gave way to white capped wave. All was obscured and blended together in a dingy white that crept in between the spaces of flesh and bone, carving out a stark and lonely outpost. A washed out photo from another century.
There was a small dark spot among the translucence of the melting snow, turning into ice with the rain. It caught my eye every now and then as it fluttered in the wind, some discarded garbage bag caught in the freeze. And then it moved, and then it moved again, and like all of those nights of figure-eights in isolation, some part of my mind put the forms together like a patchwork and I knew. I kept the car door open when I got out, and walked down the rain-slick pier to where it ended in the ice. The lake looked different so close-up, slush suspended in dirty runoff, the waste of three or four months floating on top of it all.
There was blood on the ice. Bright spots of crimson that made a technicolor trail to where he lay, dying. His coat was matted from the dampness and he looked around at me as I stood there, looking at him. Nothing that I could do. He floated on the tide about fifty or sixty feet off shore in a nest of snow he found when the lake had been frozen solid enough to walk on. A viking funeral, I thought, but sometimes there is no boat, sometimes you just have to make-do. The crushing greyness of it pressed in as it hit me again that there was nothing I could do. I thought of her photo from several summers ago of a solitary flower sprouting from a crack in the asphalt, and how there is always hope. And somehow in my mind it made sense that this stark image was my version of her parking lot, that the picture of ice and wave and blood and fur and bleakness inspired the same feeling of renewal. Even if it is impossible to elucidate. The world breaks everyone, we said, and it is not meant to be a condemnation, she said. Amen. And Thank God for you.
And then, later, what we thought the other meant by silence, and what we said, after it was explained. He lay next to me and pulled me close and in a moment of tenderness told me what his mind said to him, and how vulnerable he made himself. And I lay there with his heartbeat on my chest, and ran my fingers through his hair, and stroked his cheek, and chin, and could not look away from the blue of his eyes as we lingered there, in silence, after. I love you. And I wondered how it was possible for there to be so much convulsive beauty left in the world, ten years later and I was still shaken to the core by how fragile and perfect this life can be.
27.3.10
12.3.10
Laundry detergent.
There was an electricity in the air that reminded me of two summers ago and one early morning run after a flurry of text messages when I set out, one foot in front of the other, to claim my territory over ten miles of the town's streets, and sidewalks. A route I had not visited since at least the early summer, and I claimed it, slower, but steady, for my own. The wind cut into me as I wound my east, buffeted and resolve weary, a test. What came to me was the cadence of three summers gone, and the steeled warrior that waited to be found again, and called to duty. The way back was downhill, and tailwind, and strength and focus and the words looped, if you want to be the po-lice you gotta be thin.
In the stupid movie he said to Stay Hungry, and Lord knows that it's true.
A missive sent at the closing of the tab, of sorts, and afterward I pulled the silicone, black and dusty, out of retirement and took it with me for duty, for the hunt. It had been a long time. The words hit me like arrows, little pieces of acid that penetrated what I thought was immutable, resolute. The afternoon waned, and the drive home was bittersweet in a way that it had not been for a long, long time. How funny it was, to realize how so much remains, despite the will's attempts to excoriate the weak spots.
I focused on the movement of the calves kicking up towards the back of the thigh as I tired near mile five. I thought of a waltz, and how the irregular and unfamiliar cadence could keep the body moving, engaged. My toes dug in towards each other, and it hurt, and I told myself that pain is a good teacher, and helps us to remember how to be strong. Made a mental note of what to do in May, when the goal was 13.1 and not just 6, and how to make it more comfortable for myself. Because everyone has a breaking point, even the stubborn.
Later, later, he wrapped me up in his arms and kissed the space next to my eye that closes when I laugh. Kissed the bone under my chin, my neck, my ear. I turned my body and breathed in a deep and greedy lung-full of his smell, kissing his neck and collarbone and the corners of his lips as a mutinous smile played on my own. What is this road we walk, how do we pretend to know where we are headed when the fog is so thick that even the tiniest light obscures the smallest insight.
All that remains is to be grateful. To cherish (perhaps greedily) the dance while we are able to move, and to not look back on the fools that we have been before. The naivete, the posturing, the needing to prove oneself, to belong. All we can do is soak up every ounce while we have it. The perfect simplicity of imperfection (indulge me).
How easy, and yet how uncommon. Thank You. God speed, good luck. May You watch over us all.
In the stupid movie he said to Stay Hungry, and Lord knows that it's true.
A missive sent at the closing of the tab, of sorts, and afterward I pulled the silicone, black and dusty, out of retirement and took it with me for duty, for the hunt. It had been a long time. The words hit me like arrows, little pieces of acid that penetrated what I thought was immutable, resolute. The afternoon waned, and the drive home was bittersweet in a way that it had not been for a long, long time. How funny it was, to realize how so much remains, despite the will's attempts to excoriate the weak spots.
I focused on the movement of the calves kicking up towards the back of the thigh as I tired near mile five. I thought of a waltz, and how the irregular and unfamiliar cadence could keep the body moving, engaged. My toes dug in towards each other, and it hurt, and I told myself that pain is a good teacher, and helps us to remember how to be strong. Made a mental note of what to do in May, when the goal was 13.1 and not just 6, and how to make it more comfortable for myself. Because everyone has a breaking point, even the stubborn.
Later, later, he wrapped me up in his arms and kissed the space next to my eye that closes when I laugh. Kissed the bone under my chin, my neck, my ear. I turned my body and breathed in a deep and greedy lung-full of his smell, kissing his neck and collarbone and the corners of his lips as a mutinous smile played on my own. What is this road we walk, how do we pretend to know where we are headed when the fog is so thick that even the tiniest light obscures the smallest insight.
All that remains is to be grateful. To cherish (perhaps greedily) the dance while we are able to move, and to not look back on the fools that we have been before. The naivete, the posturing, the needing to prove oneself, to belong. All we can do is soak up every ounce while we have it. The perfect simplicity of imperfection (indulge me).
How easy, and yet how uncommon. Thank You. God speed, good luck. May You watch over us all.
8.3.10
The post-it.
Watching her die from a folding chair in the corner of the room, I moved it from the bedside to the wall to escape the crushing insistence of the fan. The room smelled of lily flowers, and incontinence, and old coffee. She woke, and slept, and woke to sleep again, and talked through the surreal thrush of worlds that bridged the gap between lucid, and not. Over red wine and steak she told me that the night before she, my grandmother had a waking nightmare and in the hallucination told her I am evil, I have been bad, I am going to hell and can I kill myself? In her sobering honesty she answered, no you cannot, do you want to? She replied, Yes, yes I do. I do.
The sun was setting red and fat and vein-glorious to the west when I backed my car into its spot and, dismounting, wound my way inside, letting the smell acquire itself to my nostrils. The view at the threshold still startles me, she looks so wasted, small, defeated. She does not wear her false teeth anymore and her face caves in on itself around her mouth in a way that I am not yet used to. I remember the story I wrote in college, of the spunky old woman who wore lime green jackets and gold ballet slippers on Sunday to church, and led the charge out the door into the waiting Spring after the sermon had been delivered, guilt weighing heavily on all of the parishioners' shoulders, save hers. She told me then, God wants us to greet nature, and to find Him in the out of doors. We followed my grandfather's broad back into the sunlight and the smells of cut grass, and daffodils. Now when I tell her that in the morning the world smells of budding flowers and nectar it is with a resigned look of sadness that she accepts what is coming.
The color has been bled out of the room, and everything whispers in a hushed tone of grey and biege and quiet. She asks me questions about things that even I do not remember, and I wonder, is this how it happens? Do we even know what is important while we hold it? My phone vibrated in my pocket and he teased me, and I smiled, and I thanked God for the momentary lapse of introspection.
My mind turned back to a winter evening, years ago. We were so young, it is almost painful how young we were! The sun waned and cast their bedroom in an orb of blinding orange, and magenta. She sat, on their bed, soaking in the taste of loss, soaking in God knows what, because I was not there. Downstairs, but far enough away. A yellow sticky piece of paper, next to a makeup encrusted phone, next to a pushed together bed, next to five million years of history. She wrote hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.
Amen. God speed. Tomorrow is a last day for many of us. Let us live it to its full potential, let us never stop or doubt or wonder. May we love what we love, without exception.
May God hold you, and guide you, amen.
The sun was setting red and fat and vein-glorious to the west when I backed my car into its spot and, dismounting, wound my way inside, letting the smell acquire itself to my nostrils. The view at the threshold still startles me, she looks so wasted, small, defeated. She does not wear her false teeth anymore and her face caves in on itself around her mouth in a way that I am not yet used to. I remember the story I wrote in college, of the spunky old woman who wore lime green jackets and gold ballet slippers on Sunday to church, and led the charge out the door into the waiting Spring after the sermon had been delivered, guilt weighing heavily on all of the parishioners' shoulders, save hers. She told me then, God wants us to greet nature, and to find Him in the out of doors. We followed my grandfather's broad back into the sunlight and the smells of cut grass, and daffodils. Now when I tell her that in the morning the world smells of budding flowers and nectar it is with a resigned look of sadness that she accepts what is coming.
The color has been bled out of the room, and everything whispers in a hushed tone of grey and biege and quiet. She asks me questions about things that even I do not remember, and I wonder, is this how it happens? Do we even know what is important while we hold it? My phone vibrated in my pocket and he teased me, and I smiled, and I thanked God for the momentary lapse of introspection.
My mind turned back to a winter evening, years ago. We were so young, it is almost painful how young we were! The sun waned and cast their bedroom in an orb of blinding orange, and magenta. She sat, on their bed, soaking in the taste of loss, soaking in God knows what, because I was not there. Downstairs, but far enough away. A yellow sticky piece of paper, next to a makeup encrusted phone, next to a pushed together bed, next to five million years of history. She wrote hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.
Amen. God speed. Tomorrow is a last day for many of us. Let us live it to its full potential, let us never stop or doubt or wonder. May we love what we love, without exception.
May God hold you, and guide you, amen.
2.3.10
A week and a wake up.
We sent each other messages a year after it happened, and my mind fell back into the cold earth of that day, and where I was, and how I found out. The spiderweb of our network, how it was fragile but unbreakable and, like my mom used to tell us, that it knew no distance and could not be disrupted. No matter what. I talked to a few of them for hours the moments and days after, looking down upon a distant and gritty world from the high and sunny vantage point of a rented room, an isolated chamber. He told me that they left him alone for too long in a stark room of boiled fluorescence, dust on the floor. And what he thought, and the advice he told me to keep my loved ones close, and to keep God even closer.
A prayer offered up for him without fail everyday thereafter. He told me they won the challenge, despite my absence, and my happiness was bittersweet.
And then the debacle of the year to follow, and how crazy it is to look back now at all of the broken glass on the trail, all the snares and pitfalls. And the voice in the back of my head telling me to not worry, keep walking, you have shoes on. I still think of seeing the bullet-riddled car, with the cigarette packs and mix CDs laying on the passenger side, and how real it all became. Blood on the door. And that I can't watch the video anymore, like other memories that some self-reliant part of me has taken, and locked away, keeping it hidden from that part that might feel nostalgic one night, and run down the furrows of what should have been left behind, and perhaps never sowed at all. The feeling of the cold earth on bare feet, sometimes you can convince yourself that it's part of an effort to remember that you still feel.
The worst lie being the one you tell yourself.
It is different now. Morning light I slowly wake to the warmth of him, and a feeling of protection, and just being so lucky that it is almost unbearable. We dance and I focus on getting all of the moves right, as if were I to miss a step, the dream would be over and I would wake up to how it was. Before. Sometimes I pinch him just to be sure. No Christmas lights in a far away courtyard, no fleeting moments of normalcy, no more of that music, I threw it all away. Just a naked smile on my face and the way he kisses the corners of my lips when I laugh.
Be safe, be happy, keep running.
A prayer offered up for him without fail everyday thereafter. He told me they won the challenge, despite my absence, and my happiness was bittersweet.
And then the debacle of the year to follow, and how crazy it is to look back now at all of the broken glass on the trail, all the snares and pitfalls. And the voice in the back of my head telling me to not worry, keep walking, you have shoes on. I still think of seeing the bullet-riddled car, with the cigarette packs and mix CDs laying on the passenger side, and how real it all became. Blood on the door. And that I can't watch the video anymore, like other memories that some self-reliant part of me has taken, and locked away, keeping it hidden from that part that might feel nostalgic one night, and run down the furrows of what should have been left behind, and perhaps never sowed at all. The feeling of the cold earth on bare feet, sometimes you can convince yourself that it's part of an effort to remember that you still feel.
The worst lie being the one you tell yourself.
It is different now. Morning light I slowly wake to the warmth of him, and a feeling of protection, and just being so lucky that it is almost unbearable. We dance and I focus on getting all of the moves right, as if were I to miss a step, the dream would be over and I would wake up to how it was. Before. Sometimes I pinch him just to be sure. No Christmas lights in a far away courtyard, no fleeting moments of normalcy, no more of that music, I threw it all away. Just a naked smile on my face and the way he kisses the corners of my lips when I laugh.
Be safe, be happy, keep running.
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