It’s easy to see a total eclipse, said the scientist. You just stand very still. One will pass overhead—I guarantee it.
How long will it take? she asked.
Not long, if you really think about it, he said. It might take 300 years, but that’s only if you just missed one right before you got to where you wanted to watch it.
Some days build like the whistle of a tea kettle, starting quiet and ending at a full-on shriek. But any day’s challenges will eventually boil over and away—it’s time’s guarantee.
The sun will set.
Even if hidden by clouds, the stars will emerge. Rest at the sight of those small beacons.
The sun will set.
When there are no wires, light candles. Let flame chase shadow so you don’t have to.
The sun will set.
As the quiet settles, invite it to stay. Cease conversation. Be still.
The sun, it will most definitely set.
The last thing he sent her was a CD with two tracks: each half of a speech he gave days before he shot himself.
It took her nearly six months, but she wrapped herself in the blanket he’d kept on his bed in college and turned out all the lights to listen. His recording spoke directly to her, though she could hear his sales team rustling in the audience. He sincerely delivered the material, which was about finding hope during dark times.
When the first track ended, she pressed stop. Sometimes, it’s better not to know how things end.
The woman from Sacramento could not contain herself after her first slice.
Sir, she said. This is. The best. Pizza. I have ever had. The crust is perfect, the cheese is perfect, the sauce is perfect.
He offered her more, because when one has such a good customer, one has an obligation to upsell. But she waved him off.
I have two pieces! she said. I can’t eat any more! Breakfast! I could eat on this for days! It is so good. So good.
Some mornings, the tentacles of whatever story held me under the surface of sleep keeps its stranglehold on my brain even after I’ve emerged from bed. The dream stays salty in my mouth, changing the taste of toast, eggs, coffee. Even while walking to the bus, it is as if I am treading water, my legs at risk of tangling in seaweed and kelp. It might be noon, those days, before I am once again grounded, before I finally have both feet on this world’s shore.
Everything is shifting, she said after an hour of silence. I’ve been waiting for this to happen for months, and it’s finally here.
He didn’t quite know what she was talking about, but he nodded anyway. He hoped she would return to that place of silence she’d emerged from.
It’s as if the door is finally cracking open, she said, and he nodded again, imagining a room where the silence happened because she had exited and he was the one left behind.
Look carefully—all city birds are not as generic as they may appear. Sometimes, you can spot one hobbling on a stump, limping as it pecks at crumbs on the sidewalk. Once, I saw one balanced on a lone stem so slight it seemed impossible it managed to keep from toppling.
Perhaps many birds lose a leg, a claw—perhaps both. We never see the ones that can’t adapt to disability—they disappear behind trash bins, in alleys.
But the strong ones learn new skills. The one-legged bird needs to know how to land safely every once in awhile.
100 Proof 