Leave My Hands Out of It

We are never alone, I learned this the hard way, by being raised Catholic and - God knows why - taking it seriously at a young age. Paths that led into the forest, snaked out into clearings, collided with stone walls, themselves colliding with time. Rain falls and the pavement darkens. I always understood the motivation to be a writer or a painter but not a sculptor, i.e., leave my hands out of it which, incidentally, is sort of how I feel about sex, too. The oak tree at the driveway’s edge which Dad so admired in his final days, nibbling a fried bologna sandwich I made him, sipping ice water through a straw. I learned not to gamble, but the price was my willingness to be hurt. Weather reports indicate no more snow, we prioritize chores accordingly. Once I had to write a story about ballet, got to the theater early and watched everybody limbering up, felt a kind of constriction in the place that to this day makes me wonder what is wrong with us. Driving at night was my favorite, always. Fractals, watercolors. What must we shroud and why?