The earth evolves, and so should I. Let the aging Oak fall so I can prune the bonsai I’ve been given to artfully divulge. Patience, someday, maybe. Someday you may read this, the big YOU. But maybe not. And when sailing a cruise ship, the captain must hold a bunch of boozy lives in his hands, besides the broken blue, gas and H2. But the captain must keep moving, l.i.f.e. g.o.es. o.n. Unlike him, who sees it all. I felt turbulence a nanosecond ago, but my heart always feels as if I’m on top of that Goliath roller coaster I’ve never been on but imagined I have a million times. Except it’s not my heart, it’s my gut. When my cat purrs on it, the lump subsides to a steady heartbeat, like it’s alive. She digs her nails into me and the resituated pain is what water feels like through a dry esophagus: right, better.
It’s weird how people, for a very long time, have associated God with the clouds. For a very long time, and continuing, people associate him with odd, out of place things that seem to make sense. It’s the furthest up we can see. He must sit there, playing his harp, or is that his angels? Well it’s Jesus, they say, and one time I tried really hard to see Jesus there, as if he’d appear out of nowhere sitting on a cloud, waving.
Wind is just air coming from the Earth’s dirt clod lungs. We feel it on planes and see our lives, just a happenstance, flash, and we feel it safely on tree limbs, hoping our pores open up and breathe them in better than our veins can. It is hard to see God in sushi, but everyone sees him in sunsets, or at least pretend they do. Can you feel his harp’s tremor in the wind?
And without trying, I must say goodbye to the Oak, the one I climbed onto with the same grooves in my thumb, the same fingerprint as before, but it’s different now.
It was different then, and I had no idea. I had no idea my mother’s life changed in that very window, where he grabbed her and pretended she was his lover. The Oak cries, too. He’s seen it all. He’s seen that tan old man hoe gardens of strawberries and watched an old hound dog die in the bushes. He’s seen the old man see the last of his farm by a whirring ambulance, and a baby girl get dropped off on broken, white floorboards that’s now a Hot Movie Star. Where are the stars, now, and do they ever look up to see them, where the only lights that litter the sky are small planets that see time in generations rather than lightyears?
And how must one count a life? By the brown, sweet blood of a sycamore tree. Cut him open, and count his rings, but never tear the arms that held a girl in his old fragile arms, wiser than the footsteps that vibrated the roots in the ground called home.