Time-treasured romanticism of a soft summer rain; stories told again and again. Gentle pitter-patter against window glass like a teenaged lover. An invitation to step outside when no one knows where will we go. Through the city, we walk on water across the cement. Mind the puddles. Soaked to the skin, our spirits not dampened. Rain breaks the heat and maybe even the humidity. Whether it has, weather it is, for a time we forget where we are. We remember decades later. On a night like this with a rain like that.
The angel at the table glares back across the clutter. Dirty dishes, candy bar wrappers and tuna tins. Self-rolled cigarette smolders on a side plate, the ashes of those before spilling over. Ignored. Kitchen bulb, harsh and bare, casts bearded shadows across the squalor. Joni Mitchell crackles from the speakers — a record once played for a daughter — offering only the slightest comfort needed on a day like today. A day where she could use a friend as much as a fix. Depression familiar to women who’ve lost a child, a fortune fit for no one. A decade has passed, but not the pain. The philandering husband who chose to grieve in other ways, salt in a wound that never heals. Self-medicating. First doctor prescribed, then vintage imbibed. Now whatever is there, whatever it takes, whatever she can find. She can ill afford to be picky. The dollar-store diet, fortified by middle-of-the-night gas station cravings, her pallid skin and coarse complexion more becoming of an anorexic, or crack whore. Years of low-wages, welfare, and tricks turned in-between. Home is now a third-floor walk-up furnished with a bed, table, two chairs, a suitcase, and an old stereo. Nothing much. Not even a photograph. Inconsequential items pawned off, lost, or left behind. Addictions, afflictions, and poverty can prune away all that does not matter, and all that does not belong. Stagnant air seasoned by sour milk and cigarettes, and bed sheets soiled by the sweat of men who visit. It should never have been. The angel has watched it all unfold. Of course she cries, but only to herself. Who else will weep? A random ambulance screams into the night, flashing lights animate the roomful of nothing. Street-level shouts from a crowd of drunks, the white noise of her dark days. Searching for a vein between the scabs and bruises, lesions that mark a dead-end journey, finding space at the elbow’s crease next to the ripening furuncle. She ties off and with hinky hand stabs the needle into a tiny patch of waiting flesh. A fervent rush consumes her entire being. Staring back at the angel’s emerald eyes, her vision goes from transparent to translucent, and then, not at all. The angel wistfully watches, a scene played out countless times before, shakes her head, rises to her feet and shuts the battered door.
Does it feel this way for everyone? This darkness, this temptation, to look away, to step away, from a silent fire. I have been burned. I am vulnerable. I am afraid of speaking out. I hold these heavy thoughts back from others (don’t they have their own concerns). What do I keep away from myself? Does it matter? Couldn’t I simply amuse myself with lighter thoughts, or gentle distractions – wouldn’t golf become a more useful game – where the object, intent, and goal is so simple? Who am I to think my purpose or intention is more important, or I am simply missing the point? I am hurting. Am I ignoring the hurt? My eyelids are heavy; is it from seeing too much, or is it from trying to keep them shut?
Midnight arrives. No moon, new moon, clouds buffer the sky, shifting moods, stars align. Where did the day go? Time stands still without the presence of people, and a sense of substance.
Questions now. We carry into consciousness a dog-eared confusion never hoped for. The longer it goes, the less you know. You want little more to ignore the impendent humidity of a Van Gogh night.
Young hearts will find a way old souls still remain, but where would you go if you knew the difference?
Deep breath. Full stop, amidst the barren dreams, night tremors, and flashbacks casting dispersions on emotions and moments of repose. Unsteadied in the innocence, unmoved by a prophecy unknown.
Reach out. All, which you see, cannot always be felt. Confronted by constraints of an ever-changing sky, a complete spectrum of wonder. All told, there are less reasons to know than less reasons to be.
Young heart will find its way old soul knows the pain, now would you go there if you knew the difference?
