Drowning in motion

VidauwooI watch the sun shine on my legs. They have carried me this far.
The gleam off my day is more beautiful than I thought possible. How can moments shimmer in poverty?
Be with the motorcycle boots and the smile and the way she was surprised.  The way she went along and the way we got along and the way it should just be this way.
He is no longer my problem. The shoe falls. This is not the way of the lamb. This is the only way I cry out of a thousand times. I let the fall of the keyboard record this. Today lights the trees. I give up and I laugh, and I rage and I cry and the tapping of the motor brings it home.
He tosses the ball and she hits it and I run after, natural as can be: We three. There is no way for me to write without my heart pouring from the rims of ceilings. There is no hiding for this heart, only breeze and sun and the way she is now, before she knows. I would give anything at all just to keep her here. Yet how can it be that there is beauty in the movement in the motion in the time?
The strangest thought occurs to me: I am finally inside out. At last they merge: the present, the past, the future, the healing and the hurt. I can only breathe.
She works on the color-coded African maps. He yells in frustration at the laptop’s uncertainty. The program gives him error after error. And I think, no I know, your problems are no longer mine. Once you chose to leave me, you inherited the kingdom of your suffering. It sloughs off my shoulders like skin, like lint, and the fresh aftertaste is all mint. How long did I put up with the weight of your demons for her? So long, too long, no longer. But then in the light, we three, the way it should be. How can this be so? It’s always more than you know.
Forget everything. All that matters is her heart—loved and held and safe as it should be.
I write something heartbreaking again when all I write is what is. Red pointed leave stalks quiver like fire and shade, comingling. Pairs of women laugh together in the sunshine. The parking lot is the way station of Sunday. My glass is finally empty, the color drunk right out of it. My bladder cries: cause and effect! The man inside brought me out my drink, blended the cool sencha with the hot, happening persimmon when he didn’t have to and now the sun dives inside the vapors and I freeze in my short sleeve T-shirt and running shorts: Winter is coming in so many ways.
I am still warm in sun and shadow. Oh, not now. Winter arrives for me at 2:24 p.m. on Sunday October 13, 2013.
Then it went away, the sun came out, but I knew. I knew anyway.

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9 Responses

  1. Erinn McGuire says:

    Sara, I have read lots of your words, but none quite like these. I am honored to be able to read these most inner and personal thoughts and feelings. You are so very brave. Thank you for sharing.

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