Sunday, November 8, 2020

Hiding in Churches

As if there were a woman who would love dogs with you. And walk with dogs in the forest with you.

How hard it was to love the dogs alone, and bury the dogs alone, and miss the dogs alone.

Holes in the sky, holes in the heart. 

And as if there were a way to forgive one's mother, who pleads now for forgiveness in the only language she knows, and as if there were a woman who would help you hear the Great Mother translating that language so you would know what to do. 

As if there were more than as if.

And as if.

Mid-morning I fry leftover pork chops with eggs and onions, which two of the kids eat smothered with the last of last year's ketchup, and one of the kids refuses to eat because killing pigs is no less immoral than killing people (she argues, not unpersuasively).

Sourdough starter unused now for almost a month, the back stairwell unswept for even longer, and the house unpainted for even longer yet.

All the art which is all we make, whatever we call it.

Watching Thirteen Days and stopping every fifteen minutes or so to cry because it makes me miss my father, and crying quietly so as not to disturb anyone, lest you have to explain the silly things that make you cry while missing your father.

As if there were a woman with whom you could miss your father in a way that was like remembering him happily or in a way that such happiness was possible, which would be a kind of healing. 

Dreams at night when it rains which I don't wish on anyone. 

Deaths of the father I don't wish on anybody.

The blind monster I became, wanting only to be loved, and so trying to avoid contact with anybody, lest yet more monstrousness find its way into the already monstrous world. 

And hiding in churches and behind churches. Leonard Cohen trying in vain to argue that our shared hump was an altar. Dan leaving for Paris, me sobbing in a Burlington snowbank begging him not to go and years later a wedding that settled nothing and postponed everything.

Late morning I hang a bifold door between the kitchen and the "white room," which is the crafting room, which Chrisoula asked for, and then reheat tomato soup and eat it watching football with the sound off, knowing that "normal" and "ordinary" are just ways of describing a dream, being okay with it while also wishing it had come to something else.

The gourds this year, and the pumpkins, and the rain this year and the night without end unending. 

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