Sunday, February 25, 2007
Discerning Morning
It was clear to me this morning that something had died.
I awoke to pelting snow; still saturated day-old coffee grounds in the maker; a caged Chihuahua whose histrionics smacked of my mother’s heroin withdrawal when I was twelve; a sleeping boyfriend hung over from the previous evening’s dissipation; a screaming headache of my own whose dome-pummeling reminded me of the frantic lightning bug I once insensitively jarred over summer break—his panicky leaps and distraught wing-flapping, trying desperately to escape the glass container, unaware all along that this would be his final, dissection spot; an out-of-tune piano, keys sticking and creaking, throwing my masterpiece into discordant bedlam; and, not least, another day of lost faith in God, of a realized withdrawal from that ancient and dizzying doctrine.
It was clear to me this morning that something had died.
And as I stood in my bedroom and overlooked 10th avenue, about to pour another day’s dish for the dog, I realized, resurrected, it was me.
Labels: Boyish
