It’s colder now. Sharp teeth on a gentle beast. We know winter is approaching but for now the only evidence is her sigh - soft, distant – and we are buoyed by the reminder of silver bells that hang in the back of her throat. For now it’s a relief to seek warmth, to crunch down sunny sidewalks instead of whimpering toward an illusory finish line in a dogged escape from swelter. For now we leave the windows open so we can smell the leaves, we watch the rain and hold warm drinks and light candles with names like vegetables and scents like dessert.
Irises unfold, stardust surfaces. Soon enough the tiny lights will blink on, happy secrets in the dark.
I know how to knit exactly one stitch. I think it’s the knit stitch but I’m not sure. An old friend (old as in this happened a long time ago, not old as in she was alive for a long time, she wasn’t, well I mean long enough to learn how to knit and to teach it to me, but not long enough to be tired of it, of being alive I mean) taught it to me while we watched Audrey Hepburn DVDs in a Texas hotel room. Last night I thought, I think I’ll knit a blanket. And then I took the pokiest, local-est bus from work to Michael’s. And I walked a little, down some streets I used to walk on a lot but I haven’t in a long time. I used to live near here, near where I work now. And it seems somehow like that was even longer ago than I learned the knit stitch, but it wasn’t at all. It was less longer ago. Much less longer ago. It’s weird how time threads itself through the things in your brain.
The air smelled so good. I carried my coat and smiled and remembered things. I even smiled about the things that didn’t make me want to smile while they were happening. I crossed the street to peek over the wall at Central Park, but it was pretty dark and uninteresting and peering over walls after dark is a good way to get yourself into trouble so any romantic notions I had about gazing moodily at dusky cityscapes etc were quickly abandoned, as are most of my romantic notions. Romantic notions are another good way to get yourself in trouble.
I thought about home a lot. About what it is in our head and about the places that become it while we aren’t paying attention. About how you can just be running a yarn errand and the thought at the top of your head isn’t Life or Love or The Meaning Of It All or even The Meaning Of Part Of It, but just an idle one about stopping at the sports store because it’s right across the street from where you’re going and the boy you live with needs socks and what a fabulous woman you are to be so thoughtful about such things, and all of a sudden you realize that you know how to get places. You know where stuff is and how to find other stuff. More than that, you move through layers of memories and visions of Other Yous that you’ve been in these same places. Other people recognize you, and remember you, and you know who they are and can maybe even remember Other Thems. All of a sudden the streetlamp you’re standing under, holding your coat, is home.
A loss of footing isn’t the worst thing. We remember what we have to hold onto when the ground disappears.
