Woke up yesterday to the sound of voices hushed trying not to wake me. For some reason I was reminded of Hamilton, sharp air in the morning, frost on the windows, rolling hills blowing in clear air.
Security and peace. So many frozen moments of purity. Ice on the branches sleeving them with flawless crystal tasting slightly of iron when you lick it. Silence, and how each sound cuts through it clearly, which is why you are hushed in speaking. Not wanting to break into the day all at once. The revered cathedral of dawn.
I rolled over and looked out the window and thought This Is What I Want. To feel clean and calm in the morning. Whispering to my kid to get ready for school. Cooking pancakes and thinking about what to make for dinner. The day falling steadily and simply as droplets off a branch. Sound of my kid's music through their doors. Having enough faith to hold it all together. No wonder mom went to church. You have to beleive so hard in this world. People hold religion above them like umbrellas in a shitstorm. Having faith that it will not stop, they squeeze the handles tighter. Holding my mother's hand, feeling the hard bare pew beneath and looking at the patterns of wood more than the preacher, surrounded by wood. slices of forest striated as if caught between microscope panes. looking at the veins in the wood, in my mother's hand, exploring it as a terrain, skin dipping between knuckles, soft and thin, blue blood pumping through, rhythmic thumb sliding over my impossibly chidlike hand.
Wood, light, tiny script, rock hard velvet pillows, echoing sound, space, tuning in and out to track how far it is to the body and the blood and then cookies afterward.
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