The man and I stared at the puddle on the floor as the elevator descended toward the lobby.
“I’m not really sure what that’s from,” I said. “I hope it’s from someone who just went to the pool. Or maybe from a dripping umbrella.”
“I try not to think about it,” he replied. “Always wear close-toed shoes.”
Are you cooking this year? asked the woman from the egg farm.
I am, I replied, and I’ll admit I growled a little—my arms ached from carrying overloaded bags through the crowded market.
She smiled as her son inspected each egg for cracks, turning them all over to check one side, then the other. It will bring you good fortune, she said. It is a lot of work, but when it’s over, good things come in.
I dreamt of everything ahead as I carried the eggs home in a bag over my shoulder, keeping them safe under my arm.
Everyone has a cure for their own catastrophes. Some recognize it sooner than others, and some, instead, choose to vaccinate against disaster, regardless of whether the serum contains the right formula for their bodies or not. Others stumble into infection again, again, and again, until, one day, they finally come up against the antibody that makes them immune to further chaos. We should all be so lucky to find the antidote to prior poisons. We should all be so lucky to find someone to help us heal.
All day, something gnawed at the inside of her belly—no matter how much she ate it remained unsatisfied. I don’t know what to give you, she said to herself. If you would only make your desires known more clearly, I would be happy to fulfill them.
But even when she made herself get quiet enough that she could hear the noise deep inside clatter like tiny teeth, she still couldn’t interpret it. She was missing something important, something that she wanted desperately to understand.
Even when the temperatures resemble summer, California’s fall light is more autumnal than most, particularly in those hours just before sunset, when the golden slant spins particles in the air. At that honey-colored hour, I find myself unable to hurry, preferring, instead, the pace my body chooses, one careful step, then another, as if even my muscles are afraid to rush through these last days before the rains set in and darkness falls so quickly.
Sometimes, the grinding to a halt can surprise. The body does not realize how tired it is until it comes to rest, and then it fights to remain there with all its weary power. It’s better not to struggle. It’s better to give in, allow fog to permeate the brain and muffle the sounds of the world.
There will be a morning when it makes sense to wake up early again. Until then, let the thrum of the heart set the pace, let sleep come when the light fades, and let thoughts be easy upon the head.
I will never cherish goodbyes. I will never relish the closing of an old theatre, the end of a book I loved, the last look into an old apartment before shutting the door behind me. But this has been a year of goodbyes gone unmarked, of formal ceremonies I could not attend.
It seems I am even more a girl of ritual than I already knew. Somewhere, in that crowd of eyes and hearts uplifted, in that shared journey of farewell, I am better able to reach quiet resolution, a release unfettered by obstacles I did not choose.
100 Proof 