All I am is watering the garden. Sun above hills, the far side of which Emily Dickinson once gazed at and thought the word "miles." My God why have you forsaken me. Women in the distance, readying the dead for burial.
In my mind, her hands on me, and in her mind, this sentence, long after the possibility of altering the writing of it has passed. Water and shore in unmistakeable relationship. Chrisoula visits before leaving, the discussion as always beginning and ending with food - what we need to purchase, what we need to harvest, what we need to prepare both to eat and put up. For a long time west was not a direction but a narrative and now it is a direction, one I have mostly avoided. Before the heat is too much, lugging chopped-up bramble to the compost.
Blueberry bushes. I don't dream for once, wake up unsure of where I am. Sunlight streaming through the keyhole of a door in the bedroom we never open. What scares you most.
A preference for victim narratives, suffering servants, et cetera. I cannot bear the loneliness without writing, nothing else is relevant here. The second cup of coffee, would you describe it as inevitable? She shares a story about Dad - one of the ones in which he is wiser than everybody else, which was so often his cover story - and it makes me sad, how much contextualization remains.
Therapist as shaman. The son is a mirror, the father a distant galaxy, and mother a light in which all things - including this sentence - are made visible. Some questions need not be asked, or must be accepted as unanswerable, or are we just becoming hedonistic again? It's responsiveness that matters, not the specific response, why is this so hard.
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