Slivers, Skies & Sandwiches

Like squirrels, we sometimes stash our histories and tragedies in little fragments and corners of the world, and then promptly forget about them. Little glimpses: words and pictures, smells and sounds. 

Above:from the instarchives,  53 weeks ago

Below: from the instapost one day ago

 Last evening , as I stepped off the bus home, one such fragment materialized in the twilight sky. I’d seen this very similar shard of sky more than a year ago: a salmon-pink triangle framed by the cassias trees of my neighborhood, with the battleship silhouette of a nearby condominium jutting into the underbelly of the heavens.

“How many times must a man look up, before he sees the sky?” I remember when I last saw this Sky.  It was about a year ago. I had been cast out, gutted and alone, at the beginning of what would be a very difficult period in my life. I remember being crippled with grief, self-doubt, self-hatred, quite literally nauseous from betrayal. I remember trying to console myself with the beauty of this sunset, and feeling nothing but a scraped-out sadness, like the sticky, hot residue after you’ve run out of tears to cry, after you’ve run out of dry, heaving sobs. 

Tonight, a year on, things were different. Catching a sight of this unexpected sky-shard, i couldn’t help but contemplate how far I’d come since: ascendant on the crest of many little personal victories, of mountains summited, and a 10-day solo gradtrip on my own power,  I was architect, dreamer, weaver and maker (in some part) of my path. The hollowness had healed. Last evening, I felt a sense of closure, glimpsing this fragment of a half-forgotten past. 

 So is this another self-indulgent post? Of course it is. This is MY blog, after all. You must know by now that I try not to buy into the myth of “objectivity” here. So this is a self-serving post (which one isn’t? Give me your adoration please… ). 

But I want to use this entry also as a shout-out to you, YES YOU! You, trudging on in the mud, hanging by a moment, so weary you’re barely, but bravely holding the fort, plugging the breach. 

I want to tell you that things will be alright. Maybe not now, maybe not even soon. But one day, on a quiet evening, as the sun sears the sunset into a gentle peach-scarlet, you will realize how far you’ve come, how strong you’ve grown. How that gaping scar has, indeed, become a scar-let. How the walls have become roofs for a new home. 

​Like squirrels, we sometimes stash our terror and tragedies in little fragments and corners of the world, and then promptly forget about them. But one day, the line extending outward will close into a circle. You will return to where you begun. You will stride back into your valleys, a giant, to find your demons long dismantled. You will sail back into your harbour after surviving those world-storms. 

And when that time comes, I will buy you a sandwich. 🌞

To Myself

By Franz Wright

You are riding the bus again
burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,
the sole passenger

with an overhead light on.
And I am with you.
I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,

the little lights off in the distance
(in one of those rooms we are
living) and I am the rain

and the others all
around you, and the loneliness you love,
and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,

and the catastrophic dawn,
the nicotine crawling on your skin—
and when you begin

to cough I won’t cover my face,
and if you vomit this time I will hold you:
everything’s going to be fine

I will whisper.
It won’t always be like this.
I am going to buy you a sandwich

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