I went on a trip with someone who is lost.
We went to San Juan.
I am faulted - but I am not untrue with my heart.
But
She is heart sick. It will take time. Her needs are
her infection. Maybe we are all afflicted the same.
The manifestations are not so important as the infection.
My infections have different tangled roots. We thought we
might help one another - a pretty fiction.
I came back from the trip
and lost again.
Well, I didn't lose because you can't lose
what you don't have. But I was sheltering myself in a
weak structure that afforded some quiet and some treading
of water in a placid pool and an avoidance of the tide.
We were both treading. For a time. Now we are not. He was a
pretty fiction, just a weigh station, a time of stillness.
Then, I went swimming, carelessly, beyond the breech, not
charted, and got caught
up in an undertow that beat my limbs against hidden
tree limbs and boulders, caught very briefly in the
horizontal vortex until I burst from the wormhole
and found the water break, the air, the shore. Except
for some fading remnant, I'm thinking I will learn to judge
the surf better and help protect others from swimming when
no lifeguard is on duty. If I have anything left to write,
it is the warning notice.
I've been packing up my son's belongings and watching
him slowly move his most precious things to his father's
house; his music, guitars, keyboard, recording elements, harmonica
now there. I've asked my daughter to get her things. My friend, Heather,
has been moving her things to her parent's house. I'm freecycling things
I thought I'd hold. They are whole, with all their pieces collected.
My life, my Blue Caravan, my life is a fiction.
It's the letting time. The Lady of Shalott needs only a vessel, a bit of breeze, a dram, and a wake.
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