On Land Never Left

When I heard of his suicide, the image of the silver cross earring he always wore in his left ear immediately came to mind. He kept his hair longer in the back and mostly wore black. He was Light all those years ago.

Do you know what it smells like to stand under a grape arbor in late July? Old Man Lou had an arbor next door growing up which he left untended for decades. It was a wild sanctuary of sorts, a wonderland to which I retreated to know another world. Its woody vines would curl as if wrapped around a pencil. The fruit hung down into the shade created by the leaves doming the ceiling and walls of the temple. And the smell – sweet like fruit but more fragrant even, like a flower. Shade, fruit, shelter . . . a sweet ambrosia of life.

If I had a grape arbor, on land never left, maybe I would bury my dogs beneath it so that their essence would grow up through the vines. Maybe I would make wine from those grapes and call it Kora. Or Maverick. Or Zuri.

So I lingered at the bend, so what? Falling led to crawling which led to rolling into the river. Floating is the new resurrection and I am all in for that.

Before sunlight, my heart-shaped bird plays his one note song as he grouses about in the grass. He calls my attention to the idea that I may have lost the battle with violets in the grass but then again, was there ever even a war? Smile, beloved, because, of course not.