The quality of morning light changes. Where in February these skies were bent a China blue, now they pitch and glow a powdery hue beneath an overlay of kirigami birch leaves. Crickets join in the morning birdthrong, a whistle-twitch chatter of new day, where winter pressed them silent.
The ladies are now comfortable in my presence and I in theirs at the odd a.m. company meeting in Her backyard.
We take tally, a cost/benefit analysis. The world is less kind than once imagined. The arms I choose now, hungry for authenticity and passion.
All these from whom I sense abandonment were not present in the first place. They were waving limbs in the ghostly distance. Always. I was often my own comfort. I've not been abandoned, merely ever alone.
And thus, when I answered a call for friendship and discovered the downy soft hollows of my weakened heart filled, I must remember that the eyes and their judgments are a mirror of barren efforts. I was withering and I answered a call.
The judgments are empty projections. Nothing more. I did not fall. My feet never left the ground.
She bubbled up blue and craving the empty curves of my hopelessness—a cradlespace, morning light and the bearable heft of my arms.
I shouldn't write in this state, because I always do—every word malcontent, an indicative misnomer bathed in pathos.
I do not know how to move through grief and simultaneously cultivate tender love. I am bumbling. A fool. A miscreant of non-contradiction.
I don't believe moving forward is a mistake, but I can't find the trick to landing beyond. I have found the snare of here and there. I am the larvae cocooned and the monarch in flight. I make love with time and all the winged things. I parse the self, the selves, the to and fro being of clustered things. The one and the many.
I am caught in heartbreak. I am surely given to love.
This all worked so much better when I knew who the words were going to.
I don't know who you are, why you're here, what your motives may be. I write bottle messages. I write to the universe sea & the order of self. Are you waiting for personal mention? Hungry for it, perhaps? Might my literary representation of something you believe yourself to be a part give you greater justification for how you live your life? For the gossip you spin?
Does the last paragraph give you ease every time you utter a negative phrase about me?
Here's the gem you were waiting for:
The week before my mother's wedding to my father, she expressed doubts. "Everyone has cold feet," my Grandma told her. And on June 3rd, forty-six years ago tomorrow, the deal was bound up that meant my eventual conception. I wish it had not been so. I wish, if I believed in spirits, I might have screamed in my mother's ear to run from the altar, and that she would have bolted for the nearest staircase. I wish one half of my gametes had split north & the other south. If not that, I wish for kinks in the vas deferens, clogs in the tubbing. They could eventually adopt. They did anyway. And that would be find. But I wish I had not been born & to be perfectly honest I'm holding out for the end. Everyone who loves me knows this. Life has been too hard, too long. Depression refuses to lift despite all the usual tricks. I have little hope, but I hope it's over soon.