Rain pushes through the kitchen window to mingle with freshly chopped dill; the intoxication is complicit. Washing the dishes, I think about a friend who is contemplating a fine line. She asks if she is crazy. We are always seeking our own permission, no?
A cold front carves space to breathe. My chest takes none of it for granted. Long inhalations coincide with a rustling of the damp leaves and branches in a crescendo of wind and rain and a million green hands waving in forbearance. If I wrote a letter to Nobody and put a blue feather in the folds, would you know that I sent it? Empty envelopes at rest in a tight stack – who knows how far it will all go? One thing is for sure, it was made to go.
I consider a nap before company arrives but I cannot settle. Instead I plug in the string of Moroccan lights and adjust the playlist to “chill.” Vodka tonics with lime. He still has his French Canadian accent and she couldn't resist my daughter's saxophones. The night warbled with music and conversation like the sounds of a party drifting across the lake.
Morning is parched. Water tainted with vodka in last night's mason jar. The sixty degree morning blares an autumn reverie. We walk it off, the dog and I.
The manure and onion tang in the air signals harvesting of the muck fields. On the later run, the thought occurs to me that the very act of conditioning the body may be adding to the shaky feeling that I am not okay the way I am. Yet with each stronger stride, I feel closer. To owning the recognition of my image. To erasing the safe distance. To tasting the destruction of woman who doesn't know for sure. The paradox fuels a further experimentation with pursuance.
I'm closing in.