Archive for the ‘Kind of true’ Category

h1

Into the shell

February 10, 2014

The world disappeared for a time yesterday, the fog separating couples from one another, obfuscating minute and second hands, muffling the sounds of sweeping on the porch outside. On the roads, cars threw parabolas of water from deep, standing puddles, and honored the warning of brake lights. It was hard to recognize friends beneath slick, soaked hoods and hats.

We had become sun-spoiled and thirsty, so I had no complaints. Still, I found myself crawling into the shell of my heart by the end of it, in search of some small shelter from the storm.

h1

Morning swim

February 8, 2014

No swimming after dark, the sign says. But it is still not dawn when we slip from air to water. The moisture collides in a rising fog that turns swimmers into ghosts.

The sky turns grey, then pink. The second hand sweeps around, around, around, ignored by all the steady lap swimmers. I slip from the pool as the second shift stumbles to the edge of the deck.

The hardest part is getting wet, I tell the man above me on the deck.

I know, he replies, windmilling his arms to delay entry. That’s why I’m still out here.

h1

The purest, clearest water

January 10, 2014

The truck halted on the grassy track along the edge of Aunu’u, and Tino gave the orders. Shalom macheted down a small tree to knock a set of green coconuts free, and Francis shimmied up the palm trunk to loose them from above. They sliced off the tops and handed each of us one to drink. 

It’s the purest, clearest water there is, Tino said. God blessed us this way.

 

He taught us how to use the shell to scoop out the meat and eat it. This is the Samoan way, he said. Now you try.

 

h1

After the sunburn

January 4, 2014

After the sunburn, my arms peel, the skin coming off in rolls after a shower, in flakes the rest of the time.

I scratch my arms and think of snow, and of whether or not these shavings could be pressed into a voodoo doll.

It’s not if, it’s when, I say, and I’m talking about skin cancer, and he points at me, hard, the way that means be quiet and don’t tempt fate. I roll around on the bed, shedding skin, wishing I was a little less Irish and a little more Basque.

h1

Uncertain power

November 20, 2013

Once, I recognized my body. I knew its limits and its power, its strength and weakness, and it was a familiar friend. Now, it’s like a house with uncertain power supplies. I move through hallways blindly on days in darkness, sensing patterns with my fingers. The path has changed now, strange obstacles appearing where I least expect them.

It’s beautiful, here in the dark, but strange. Some days, I bite at myself like a wild dog. Some days, I am, myself, strong current. But the tunnel has no end-light. The map to resolution is nowhere to be found.

h1

Ladybug season

November 16, 2013

In this season, ladybugs rush in my sun-warmed, open window.

They’re just beetles, someone once said to me. What’s the big deal?

They’re lucky, I replied, thinking of the brush of their small feet against my hand, the mechanical clatter of their elytra against the air. They land and take off again as quickly as a surprise, as unexpectedly as a wish-come-true.

I let them in, let them wander walls and ceilings, let them alight on my computer screen. The season will change, and they’ll disappear, but for now, they are my welcome guests.

h1

The scent of a memory

October 18, 2013

I just took a sip of this wine and smelled the bedroom of my ex-girlfriend, said the man behind the counter at the wine shop. I need to buy bottles of this wine. Cases of this wine.

He lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled deeply, then set the glass down and looked up at the ceiling, a small smile settling across his lips. We all breathed in, breathed out, breathed in again.

He shook his head. Let’s be clear, he said. I don’t want to go back to that time.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.