Part One. Before.
coming upon it was like a dream. the body glistening black like it was wet almost. the accident had happened hours before. the wheels were not spinning, though i remember them that way. the car was upside down in the middle of the road. whatever had happened already having happened a long time ago. and us, coming from somewhere. i take the alley to not see. it's more than quiet. the inside of things usually glows blue. other people's homes at night glow blue. people are kind, let you pass. people speed. i guess it happens for all reasons: fault and chance alike.
anywhere can be a performance. a place with white walls or off-white walls. a place where bloodied shirts crumple where they are thrown. a place where people take their clothes off. a woman wrapped in cloth is walking the hill. i am not new to driving but i don't do it often. i prefer back roads or long stretches of highway. at the top of the peak we can see clearly for miles, the swell of traffic off the bridge, even the cities across the bay wavering gold there. it's incredible to be alive. girls in a limo screech and howl into the night. they are saying the same thing i think. i can put myself right behind where he is standing and he keeps me warm and i turn my head to rest on the back of his neck, and across his shoulders. and i breathe in and i just think, thank you for this second. holy shit, thank you.
in 1977 my grandfather wrote: each day is like a portrait of my whole entire life in miniature.
people are either getting better or getting worse. going out of my way just the smallest bit is so strange. the other side of the street. an earlier part of the day. lemonade with cayenne piled at the bottom. just a little bit of a highly addictive thing. these pleasures of ours can be turned inside out. satellite images of a city i hardly know at all. even constants like south or north are arbitrary. the underneath part of highways. the yards and cement of the rough parts of town. walking the wrong direction toward the beautiful water. i use the bridge to orient myself. i pretend i don't see him looking back at me.
anomie.
or the smoke and holy water of a blessed place.
the sound of my shoes on church-floor.
i like the idea of kneeling.
of sacredness.
of walking out into the cold to hear his voice, my arms bare.
of her photo, pale yellow. and the mystery of each person behind the camera too.
the simplicity of it: his hand on the run in my stockings. or in my hair.
the simplicity of it: we are born and we will die.
i think i didn't really believe it was truly possible. but she is gone from this earth.
Part Two. After.
riding backwards on the train, the one i think my dad hopped illegally back when it was possible to do such things. the childhood homes of my parents swelling with additions and modern roofs, cleaned of ivy. we sneak away to drink irish whiskey. the street is narrow. along the sides of it are dark branches wrapped with white lights. i am surprised both by what i remember and what i forget. it is when we are sleeping that our brains decide what is important. laying the penny on the track. being early. clues, i guess. artifacts. what part of me can i turn toward what part of you? what choreography of closeness.
i write letters on the plane and then give them to the flight attendants. i love people's initials. i love foreshadowing. far below me the lights of the earth are scattered out in pin-pricks. for the first time i feel like i believe in flight. i learned that a city can build and dismantle itself all in one day. the lines of life can soften and embolden simultaneously. your hands can grow weak. light, gold, turquoise, a warm pink, chain link, the opaque of factory smoke against the sky over the highway. purple glass.
do what you want with your life, she says. the man beside me on the plane is doing algebra problems for six hours. there is something quite beautiful about algebra problems if you aren't trying to solve them. for 48 hours after she says that i just think...yesyesyesyesyesyes. i will.
i don't ever want to feel finished.
i am in a wine cellar.
a cemetery.
a catholic church.
a subway.
a bar with the heat turned high and football on. and no music.
an airport.
a mexican restaurant with christmas lights in the window.
a road outside the city.
back inside my own tiny and perfect home.
"this doesn't look like oakland," i say. i feel dreamy and strange.
"it's san francisco," he tells me. "you live here."
i fall into my life.
it has rained and the streets are damp.
there are pale purple flowers on the table in my favorite vase that once i thought i'd lost and i lay on the kitchen floor until i remembered where it was.
a margarita stirred and the edges of the glass laced with salt.
a half-gesture they call it, when you reach your palm up toward someone. it means they are meant to take it, press theirs down on top. and he does.
i fell asleep every night in that strange bed with my phone breathing beside me. the pale chandeliers floated underneath me. we stole wine. we walked through the cold. we sat at the feet of the virgin mary in the grotto. we all share blood and belong to each other.
and her spirit is in us.
the thing about every single second is that you can feel each one. each step evocative. even hurtling through the air, feverish, anxious, mourning, besotted, disoriented, unsure. you can. they pass and pass and pass, but you can feel them.
anomie.
or the smoke and holy water of a blessed place.
the sound of my shoes on church-floor.
i like the idea of kneeling.
of sacredness.
of walking out into the cold to hear his voice, my arms bare.
of her photo, pale yellow. and the mystery of each person behind the camera too.
the simplicity of it: his hand on the run in my stockings. or in my hair.
the simplicity of it: we are born and we will die.
i think i didn't really believe it was truly possible. but she is gone from this earth.
Part Two. After.
riding backwards on the train, the one i think my dad hopped illegally back when it was possible to do such things. the childhood homes of my parents swelling with additions and modern roofs, cleaned of ivy. we sneak away to drink irish whiskey. the street is narrow. along the sides of it are dark branches wrapped with white lights. i am surprised both by what i remember and what i forget. it is when we are sleeping that our brains decide what is important. laying the penny on the track. being early. clues, i guess. artifacts. what part of me can i turn toward what part of you? what choreography of closeness.
i write letters on the plane and then give them to the flight attendants. i love people's initials. i love foreshadowing. far below me the lights of the earth are scattered out in pin-pricks. for the first time i feel like i believe in flight. i learned that a city can build and dismantle itself all in one day. the lines of life can soften and embolden simultaneously. your hands can grow weak. light, gold, turquoise, a warm pink, chain link, the opaque of factory smoke against the sky over the highway. purple glass.
do what you want with your life, she says. the man beside me on the plane is doing algebra problems for six hours. there is something quite beautiful about algebra problems if you aren't trying to solve them. for 48 hours after she says that i just think...yesyesyesyesyesyes. i will.
i don't ever want to feel finished.
i am in a wine cellar.
a cemetery.
a catholic church.
a subway.
a bar with the heat turned high and football on. and no music.
an airport.
a mexican restaurant with christmas lights in the window.
a road outside the city.
back inside my own tiny and perfect home.
"this doesn't look like oakland," i say. i feel dreamy and strange.
"it's san francisco," he tells me. "you live here."
i fall into my life.
it has rained and the streets are damp.
there are pale purple flowers on the table in my favorite vase that once i thought i'd lost and i lay on the kitchen floor until i remembered where it was.
a margarita stirred and the edges of the glass laced with salt.
a half-gesture they call it, when you reach your palm up toward someone. it means they are meant to take it, press theirs down on top. and he does.
i fell asleep every night in that strange bed with my phone breathing beside me. the pale chandeliers floated underneath me. we stole wine. we walked through the cold. we sat at the feet of the virgin mary in the grotto. we all share blood and belong to each other.
and her spirit is in us.
the thing about every single second is that you can feel each one. each step evocative. even hurtling through the air, feverish, anxious, mourning, besotted, disoriented, unsure. you can. they pass and pass and pass, but you can feel them.
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