David.
The gift of “pure.” His sanctuary in the trees above the ravine.
I am back in Gainesville.
The sensation of 72-degree water on my skin, limestone and karst under my feet, unconsolidated sand and shell sticking between my toes. The resistance of the headspring pushing me back and the welcomed burn deep in my lungs as I dive deep into the vent. Familiar and welcomed sensations of pain. Feral and free and in Florida.
Home.
The complications of that word. Familiarity and fear. The discharge of tears as yesterday’s gift plays in the background.
She is a little explosion of hope
Never turns the lights down low
She can go there if you want to, though
There are no markings on her country roads
No signs that show the way back home
But when you get there, you won’t wanna go.
Broken open and raw.
The deeply tangled knot that sits where my heart should be. Not hardened, but light and imbricate. A tillandsia nestled with the “birds in the body tree.”
Shared Name. Shared spatial sensation.
Identification.
Realization.
Acceptance.
Grief.
2009. Jacquelyn’s words through the pink Motorola. A flood of moments in the Spanish Colonial with the thick white plaster walls.
His softness as he stands next to the dishwasher consisting of only coffee mugs. The legacy of a life in colorful ceramic forms. “Just missing Alaska.”
Transported back to that house. Enraged. Wanting to smash his framed Enron stock certificates onto the tile floor. To destroy the sarcasm shielding his pain. Shatter the mask he felt necessary to wear.
I’ve frozen over my desires
Covered up in virgin snow
But when I stand beside her
She burns, yeah, she burns
Like petrol-soaked paper and fireworks
The warmth of the sun coming through the wavy glass. The same window. The unfairness that someone could feel so much pain in the presence of that light-giving window. Tears again and gratitude for the window’s last warmth on him. The forbidden wish of peace.
And I’m burning, I’m burning
I’m burning so deep that just breathing hurts
I’m melting, darling, and I can’t let go
I’m melting, darling, and I can’t let go
I’m melting, darling, and I can’t let go
Wishing for another humid walk through Spence’s garden. The first taste of steamed oysters. Maudlin laughter in the summer air. That happy birthday gathering.
Precipitation.
Infiltration.
Recharge.