This gap of silence marks a time of living in the world. All corporeal. Me, plastered up against the bones of my face, smiling and talking, forgetting to breathe.
Time filled with food on plates. And washing up. A yearning for pockets. Countless lists, all in my own hand. That small comfort of recognition.
Notes to myself slipped under my pillow. Deserted by dreams.
The startle of branches against sky. The slope of dormant lawns
where childhoods lie buried and waiting. Airport terminal tiling.
Glasses lost in the woods. Cold enough to
crack the world, and people carrying on, regardless. So cold. Weather
alerts on my phone warning of high tide surges on a beach 2,500 miles
from where I live.
School canceled for snow that might, but didn't. Pain killers and anesthesia and antibiotics. Machines for bending. Photos of bone and tendon. A tree hung with only a few blue balls and all my lovely icicles. A long blue table and crusts of toast.
One three year-old's refrain that cradles me still: Daddy it's nighttime. Look Daddy, look. It's sooo dark outside. I wanna go home.
A lovely, hectic time. But long, too long between breaths. My tank
ran out. The stuff of the world sits hard on me and words
completely desert me.
It is time to reacquaint myself with air.