weather systems

revolution and revelation, a different kind of sunday. creaky kitchen tables and dream disambiguations. the air yesterday held the hint of spring in it like a quiet promise: warm under the chill, warm enough to sit outside in filtered sunlight on the back patio at the coffeeshop, faraway car stereos and the sounds of people cooking through open apartment windows. pasting postcards into pages and working on the forgetting. cement bridges turned to dust, a paragraph or two at a time towards the new reality. or perhaps just a book about it.

broken devotions. cars stuck on staircases and the whole world waiting outside, golden light and a wash of birds like a school of fish spooling in front of carved-out mountains. the pushing away and the getting closer to, the torture and the nourishment. the moving and the attempted moving on.

one hundred days

there’s never any forgetting. there’s just remembering less often, like the shift from a constant drowning to the navigation of waves. some days there’s forgetting for huge expanses, hours at a time. but some days are all remembering, still, and it’s all she can do to drag herself to bed before passing out from the weight of it. nights like these she falls asleep with her clothes on and wakes up in fever dreams. sleep forever or no sleep. nothing in-between.

in the safety of the car, it’s finally friday. a friend tells her she’s getting better, but pain still shoots around like some kind of twisted internal pinball game: heart to gut, head to arms, spirit (extra flashing lights and vibrations for that one), and back to heart again. houses of solace, holy and otherwise, are now battlegrounds; the fuzzy math no longer suffices. an invocation of gratitude, but gratitude coupled with tetherlessness.

she perpetually does not know what to do with her hands: clasp, write, type, pray, punch, clutch, cover her face. closed, open: suddenly feeling the cold, wet tile walls in the shower,  wondering how much time had passed. a minute? forty? yesterday was better, tomorrow might be worse. each night is another application of the salve of time. rinse and repeat.

nodding in agreement, watching the sunrise out the window, the flat tire from last night brings the forgetting again before another wave comes. the days are marked like some kind of morbid anniversary, all thirty-three of them so far. she’s stopped writing letters, there’s no one to give the words to anymore.

some would call this improvement.