Magpie 120

everything i see is just a figment of the world where i can’t see, can’t race, can’t figure out anything without a constant reminder.  there is life in you, in her, in the way he used to make something out of nothing.  in my garden, i am whole, and i begin to forget the intricacies of his speech.

i grew up in a land where nothing was as it seemed.  suburbia with giant gardens.  lunchboxes with fancy tidbits.  antiques and china and opera on sundays.  climbing trees and chasing boys and rollerskating.  burying in books, every book i could get my grubby fingers on.  back then i wrote about my future on a horse, that dream of racing, of wandering far with my trusty steed.  i was the youngest, from a different father, a different way of being.

on weekends it was an opposite world.  kid cereal and atari and rose gardens and walking through city blocks.  meet me in an hour in the coffee shop, he’d say.  piles of used books in that big store and finding the prettiest roses.  he grew mister lincolns six feet  tall and built stained glass.  we got up in the early mornings and hunted for agates.

i always thought they were so different. how did they come together. why do i even exist?  i’m a fluke, i told myself.  i don’t make sense, i shouldn’t be here.

today i am different.  they were artists.  gardeners.  writers.  beachcombers.  but she was not free, and he could do nothing to save her.  under his own demons he lay.  when they parted i was left, scrambling both ways.  she found sanctuary, as did he.  i sat at the top of the mountain, looking down at both, feeling cold.

when he died, i died.  i left that body and floated through the air.  i saw her fear when i reached for her and it pushed me away.  these days i walk alone, looking for the world in my own eyes, creating this new frame.  i don’t reach for the old anymore but i’m reminded of it daily.  in what i grow, in who i speak to, in the world around me.  everything i look at now causes me to slow, to observe, to wonder

if this is what he meant for me to see.

in bare feet, there is mindfulness.

Knock on the sky and listen to the sound.  ~Zen Saying


Recent Posts

See All