Lay down the wounds like canyons, like caverns in your ocean heart. Cuts in the deep where the water runs coldest. Let the currents of salt fill every crack. Let go of the empty.
You are a world formed in rock and volcano and hurricane. You are the undersea mountains, hidden in the dark. You are the valleys in the hills at the bottom of the earth. . . .
Read MoreThe slip of moss and pebble underfoot. Slime of algae and bacteria, bubbling in the tepid water of the shallow creek we follow. My feet on the slip: bare uncalloused toes feeling for some kind of grounding, some kind of earth, some kind of level. . . .
Read MoreFlannel folded on top of linen on top of velvet and taffeta and silk and calico. Smell of the dryer and iron, tinge of hot metal. The soft cut of thread on dry fingers. The whir of the machine behind the door.
The sewing room was more like a closet, hemmed in at a back corner of the house. Space as a wide as the window that let in the afternoon sun like a silent hallelujah. . . .
Read MoreRemember the scrawl of initials on aspens, bark thin and scarred. The flutter of heart-shaped leaves, butter yellow, glowing in the sun.
Remember the shuffle of damp pine needles underfoot, the sifting of thoughts that fall on forest silence.
Remember the want of solitude, threaded to the want of freedom. . . .
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