To sail down flooded open streets
greet donkeys in the market alleys
juggle candy red apples
and float rings of wild shooting stars
chase stray dogs
until we can’t run anymore
To nap in the 3 o’clock sun
wedged between cat elbows
and your legs
—I’d gather torn beddings
and make hamster shavings—
To burrow and make drip drip caverns
and slumber in dandelion quilts
Is my small wish
this sunny, something afternoon.
Life has been…interesting. So much happens day by day, week by week, that I wish I could just collect the events in my life and my thoughts about them in a jar as they occur and drift it off your way.
The little joys and trip-ups seem so significant when they happen, but once I sit down to write to you about them, I exhale once, and they are blown away like a dry leaf in the autumn wind.
I have nothing left to share with you. Only vague feelings and torn images and words remain, and I’m afraid a collage of mismatched information wouldn’t do you any good.
I’m awfully lonely without you here; I remember when we saw each other every day, talking about our day over snacks and drinks. You had the best cookies and I had the best teas. We pulled out all the stops when others came over; we loved to host and entertain, and we knew we were the best at it.
She trudged on, directionless but fueled, her rage focused on the patches of pavement shifting and trembling beneath her favorite shoes.
He’d looked at her with unfocused, uninterested eyes. He’d shaken her hand. He’d politely led her into his office and waited for her to sit.
The wind snuck its way into the hole between her scarf folds. She covered it absent-mindedly and walked faster. A pigeon scuttled in circles in her path. She stopped and thought back to the clock.
It was round, standard, white. She’d stared at it at the start of the interview, trying to recall the Stranger’s emotions. She didn’t mean to stare at it; it merely interrupted the path of her gaze, and she found it alarmingly blank. The priest? “I don’t remember,” she said. She couldn’t remember any of the plots of the books she mentioned, only impressions, the smoke that trailed off, the “faint remainder,” “the gentle indifference of the world.” So what if he didn’t visit the priest?