Henotia

It is not impossible to siphon off a bit of brain and bobble it around, spin it and aerate it.  Make the story of things as they are and serve it up yet again.  Just a stretch.  It’s late.  I am tired.  I am thinking about so many things that I have not thought of in a long time.  Justice, wedding dresses, walking the rest of the way on my own.   I am also choosing to set all the thoughts aside and just listen to the trickle of worries spill until I hear the thoughts behind all that.

You’re alright.  You’ll bob back up.  You’ll come a’right.  You’ll end up alright.  You are all right right now.

Dinner with the sisters.  Monte Cristo sandwich that tasted light and fluffy. A fifth of whoopie pie that tasted like a sugar brick.  The things I would do for ice water.  It is my singular desire and I never look after making it ready when I should want it, here as morning rushes towards me.  It feels somehow, at 11:30p.m. like you are sitting on the day’s windowsill as the earthly set designers change the scenes around you.  Draw in a tree and drape blue and purple leaves on its arms, pull out a curtain of evening sky and stud it with zirconia, paint the middle distance until it pulls the eye into infinity.

It was Friday and somewhere on the periphery, a terror, somewhere further out, a war, somewhere at the furthest edge, an end.

But here, we put dresses on drunk women and sent them careening down the street in new, orange-brimmed sun hats. Here we send women who might have been ourselves away empty-handed, shrugging as they offer themselves up.  Twenty pounds, they assert, and I’ll be back.  No, I say, you won’t.  But…for a moment, we hope together for something that gives you some illusory pleasure.  We try together and we don’t judge the reason we’re trying.

Isn’t it funny how the things we swore we would never do come to us so easily now as a way to get by, pass through, ease the coming and the going?  We don’t question it.  We just softened in our insistence until the demand to be upright is taffy to the touch and the demand to make life go just that little bit easier is as hard as diamonds, inviolate.

This is growing up.  You say it won’t be like that for you, Peter Pan, but it would.  This is the ladder and we are the salmon.  We only know what we know to know.

I wouldn’t mind you turning up now, peeking out and climbing to sit with me here on the windowsill overlooking the new day.  It shall not be, but I would not mind it.  I wouldn’t pine so hard, I think, if you had cut the cord betwixt us and let the lie be the blade.  But not three ago you insinuated, you inveigled, you turned up. Now, I have truth and a long chain on this particular manacle.  And a key in my hand if ever I care to run away from it all.

I will, when I care to.  I will.

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