Today is long. "You can't LEAVE!" Alexa and Sydney protest when I go to leave the gym at 9am. Where does K.S. take her authority and nose-hole-thang next? How do I follow? I must follow. Can I? Who are we telling these stories to and is it all right if I want to believe that sometimes it does not matter, that no matter what we cannot lose sight of the story for ourselves, the story for just us written to the music of keys in quiet rooms? Or is this what I have to move beyond, what frightens me? I don't know, but I will sing in faux-theater musical notes as we walk down chilly July sidewalks. Four of us at our own Tidewater table as I write comments and this tall one smiles and two are in the middle of the story and the third one walks back with shots.
Then tonight I walk alone past the mansion. Lamplight shows the shadow of hooded head on sidewalk. Suddenly I am Dante in fire-charred night perpetually pointed toward hell, but walking, walking, never looking up or back but ahead.
No comments:
Post a Comment