High Eighties in the Valley

Dreaming of the life departed, the life to come. It is disquieting, this trace of bitterness that has come into my life: I do not want to nourish it. Still it brings visions with it, and a certain understanding of other embittered people, an intimacy with them. I weigh it my hand, thoughtfully, as I would a handgun: not something I've ever liked or approved of, but an object of a certain fascination, nonetheless.

Put it aside. The day is brilliant, if foreign: a strong simple sunny day. The radio announcer said high eighties, with no trace of the usual incredulity in these parts. Just the facts, ma'am. High eighties in the Valley.

I breathe deep, let my shoulders open, pull the air up into my chest, push it down into my belly, let the ribs ease. I am ridiculous, as solemn and slow as a chilly insect on a twig, stepping carefully, once, and swiveling its antennae. Not at home in all the heave and thrust of summer: this season is not ruled by my gods.

Except, maybe, Vega. But then, everything reverses at night, all the loyalties. She comes out, comfortable and easy, riding up over the parti-colored pickup truck, ducking under the maple tree, cruising at last in the high fields of the sky. You are still blessed, she says. And I ask why, and she says, don't ask questions.

You know, I could become a Christian and pray to the Virgin. I bet she doesn't treat her people this way. Ha. Quaking in my boots. Ask a real Christian, boy.

I suppose she's right: she usually is.

Lots of love, dear ones. xoxo