A California truck stop, a grief. We close our eyes, slip the skin, and then the light comes, a sparkling tapestry, a lesson in narrative. This is the season of going forth.
This is the time that we have been writing toward. Late at night, the darkness arrives as a solace, and the only prayer is not fused to anger but simply attends. One leans into improvement, one shies away from acceptance.
At least one industry thrives on our inclination to see ourselves as flawed yet fixable. A sentence is never complete. The students arrive happily and for a moment you choke, unsure about the terms of the agreement that landed you here.
Yet you are here, dreaming of a night stop out west, of death as a sort of hungry bird slowly working its way toward us in the dark. The grammar lesson finished, the teacher found himself with pen and paper and a strange - yet comforting - longing to write. We are all of us composed of desire and its opposite.
A note to remember scattering ashes. It pleases me, your willingness in the night to roll over, place a hand on my shoulder, allow the heat of your body in the house of blankets to warm me despite my flaws, despite my greed. The sentence I serve under has been lifted, it has been washed away, and now my joy is complete.
One moves toward benediction, stopping briefly at eulogy, and glancing back at the rough hinterlands of woe. Salt your texts lest the light not fall upon you! For a few hours at 4 a.m., walking the dog while the moon slipped its moorings and deer could be sensed clearing the last of the frosty clover, I sobbed quietly, unwilling that my joy should disturb the sleep of the truly just.
I am here only at your invitation. But I am here.