makeshift
On the eve of the eve of the anniversary of something I make a makeshift altar out of the top of an old Dean and Deluca crate, the…
On the eve of the eve of the anniversary of something
I make a makeshift altar
out of the top of an old Dean and Deluca crate,
the bottom of which holds tapestapestapestapes,
in suspended animation. A pandemic weaving,
candle gift real flowers
floating in melty wax, tumbled
amazonite, hierophant.
In a sudden way, I have less time. Less time to consider ponder wonder, worry. I am still here and when I see an old person walking down my street, a familiar face but no known name, a neighbor really, I think to myself, “they are still alive. they made it!” as if something is ending. As if the engine of the city isn’t revving up to return to something. I remember this longing — this worry that the tenderness would never come back. Life keeps proving my worry wrong. There are endless opportunities.
The new downstairs neighbor smiles at us through his mask, which has fallen just under his nose, asks my kids their names. I introduce them as the feet you’ll hear above you but that’s not fair. They are so much more. Demons, fairies, shapeshifters, true love.
I fall asleep lying on a park bench while my children play until the sun and the shadows moving over me, until the creeping cold on my legs wakes me up.