Monday, July 5, 2021

13

I struggle to make space to write because I want to be like a door, an opening between what is and what could be, even when I know that’s not possible. So many openings shrink away after they’re revealed. The quiet voice not always audible; the quiet rooms not always inviting. I have friends that I love who live far away and we all have our own lives. At dinner, across the table the sliding door sits open, all that plastic mesh. We’ve found a way to continue to find each other, walking out of a home and into a car with a handful of paper towels, ordering too much food. Today, at the river, the brush was burning. I called the fire department, and someone had already called. Already there. Watching a palm tree burn, I was surprised by how many specks of leaves appeared, flying above the flame. Bright red everything, orange and orange. I misheard the song and thought the lyrics said, “Stay fire on fire,” when they really said, “Stay far from fire.” I walked into my own unknowing as a thousand fireworks shot off all over the city. There was a flash of light, and for a moment everything moved.

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21

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