TRANSIT VISA: The Present

The Past:
Potter's Line Market, April, 2010
Alex and I roll together in the present in his cubby-hole bed. We are happy in the present. I no longer taste the acid fear that was in his mouth in November. We were still falling with the world around us then, still feeling the descent. And what did I taste like on my own turf then?

     I’m trying to keep the past alive, even if only on life support, packed into a storage container. There are things in the deepest part that I haven’t seen for years, and that I can’t possibly need. I can’t keep up with the payments, but I can’t give that much of myself to the winds. I wrote Uncle Bob’s Storage an email – Dear Uncle Bob’s…and so forth – a plea for help in these uncertain times.

     There are six new lambs! Their parent’s faces are black stone. If we stay crouched long enough at the edge of their hut, a giant expressionless head butts them toward us from behind. The lambs are so new even the two goats post sentry to guard them. They are fresh cream with the farmer’s markers, splatters of lavender. Jasmine reaches her two and eight month old hand out to touch a soft head newer than hers.

     Alex said alright; let’s suffer in abject poverty together. He said come, and let’s see what we can do together. We lie on the trampoline and he says when it’s warm we’ll sleep out here with the animals, under the stars. Thank God that he sees me, that he’s the one to drink the last of my beauty.