Good Luck

      Plaza Mayor. It feels like spring – warm, but not yet too warm. I select a mostly empty café with ivory umbrellas open against the midday sun and sit down at a table. A waitress comes and asks me what I’d like and I make a small gesture with my thumb and index finger as I say, “Espresso, por favor, y biscotti.”

      I don’t speak Spanish, but I don’t mind pretending, and the waitress seems content that I’m not the average, ignorant tourist so I smile to myself, settling in to people watch. I rest my chin in my hand, my elbow on the edge of the table. Across the square, people take pictures of the architecture and shop at the little stands. Women usher children past, scolding them in rapid language that doesn’t seem to have its desired impact as they raise their voices higher and higher. Men stroll by and look with interest, but then quickly look away again. The first few times I barely notice, but it happens with consistency. Young men, too, about my age, of various types – some with dark hair, some with light, of average height or build or with features that make them stand apart.

      I’m relieved when my espresso arrives to distract me from the otherwise disconcerting gazes. I look down into the tiny cup, stirring in two packets of sugar. I’m probably just imagining things.

      A few tables over, an old man is sitting with a folded newspaper and a carafe of red wine. He lifts his hand and beckons me over. With a glance over my shoulder, I can see that there’s no one else sitting outside, so he can only mean me. I take my little cup and plate and maneuver between the chairs to sit across from him.

      “Hola, señor. Me perdona, yo no habla español.”

      He smiles at me broadly from beneath his flat straw hat. He has a thin moustache and the wrinkles on his skin are smooth. His eyes, under bushy white eyebrows, are a brown so dark they almost seem black. Still, there’s kindness in them, and maybe a little mischief. He’s well-dressed and well-cared for – a man of means if nothing else.

      “That is fine, señorita, my English is quite good.”

      “Are you from Madrid?” I ask politely.

      “No, no, I am a country man. My family comes from Seville.”

      “Ah, it’s lovely there,” I smile.

      “And you are American, no?”

      “Yes, am I easy to spot?”

      “No, no, you blend in very well, but your eyes say too much. That is why all the young men look away.”

      I laugh, wondering if the old man is a gypsy or a fortune-teller. Could he have read my foolish thoughts from earlier?

      “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “Si, yes you do. You see the way they stare at you one second and then avoid your eyes. That is because when they look at you they see the future. And young men? Nothing scares a young man like the future.”

      “What do you mean?”

      I don’t have to believe him to be interested.

      “He looks at you, he sees a little house. He sees a wife, a children, a happiness routine. But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t trust himself or what he sees. He thinks he not ready, so he look away. You don’t show the young men what they want to see – you show them what they mother want to see. Tough break, they say. But you wait. One day a young man be ready. He look at you,” the man clapped his hands together, “and that is it. Love. Forever. And all that future in your eyes come true for you both.”

      I smile, my eyes drifting back down to my espresso, away from the old man’s answering smile. It’s a nice thought. It’s what a grandfather might say to a favorite granddaughter and I am strangely touched that he chose to say those words to me.

      “You no believe me, hm?”

      I lift my face, still smiling and shake my head. “You’re very kind. It would be nice to believe.”

      “You wait. Someday you see.” He takes out his wallet and pulls a few bills out, setting them on the table as he carefully rises from his seat. “When they look away, you remember what I say, señorita.”

      He pats my hand and takes a cane I hadn’t noticed before that’s leaning against the neighboring table. He turns to be on his way, but I call out to stop him.

      “Señor!” He looks at me over his shoulder. “Gracias, señor.”

      “Good luck, señorita.”

Smile

      It's after midnight. I'm standing in the backyard, far enough away that I can see the whole house silhouetted by the street lights on the other side. The light is on in the basement. I walk toward it with familiar purpose and crouch down expectantly. I see him in jeans and a dress shirt rolled to the sleeves, but he's not at the old task. He's putting books upon a shelf as if to occupy formerly busy hands. I stand up, climbing the steps of the back porch with a newborn confidence. I open the back door, unlocked as always. In the moonlit kitchen, I search along the counter for something in particular, a block of wood. I find it with ease and select a knife with care. A paring knife of some kind. Something that suggests a certain precision. I pull it by the handle and turn in the darkness toward the basement door -- closed but not locked, just like the back door.

      I take the steps at an angle, my back pressed against the wall. I'm quiet as a mouse, five steps from the bottom. Three steps. Two. I've never been this far before. I've never been more than three steps down, far enough to see without being seen.

      I walk up behind him. I'm still so quiet he hasn't heard me. I guess he thinks that no one knows that he still comes down here.

      "Hello."

      He whirls in surprise, his reflexes still razor sharp. He stares at me like I'm a ghost. I guess to him I am a ghost.

      "What are you doing here?" He has every right to ask.

      I smile almost coyly. I examine his unchanged face and feel my resolve harden. "I came to see you. I brought you something."

      "What?"

      I smile more widely as I lift my hand, holding the knife at the blade, the handle extended toward him. I half expect him to take a step back, but he stands frozen, staring at my hand.

      "Go on. Take it."

      He does so with reluctance. I can tell it's been a while since he's held one, but his knuckles bend around the handle like they're coming home again. I exhale my relief and take a step toward the empty makeshift table. I've watched a thousand horrors happen here at his hands. I boost myself up without taking my eyes off him. He watches carefully, suspiciously.

      "What am I supposed to do with this?"

      He taps the blade against the open palm of his other hand because he already knows what I want him to do. I tell him so.

      "You know what to do." I lay down and stare into the single lightbulb that has haunted many of my waking dreams. "Sometimes the only way to stop the pain is to cut it out."

      I keep staring at the light, feeling like the knife in his hand: like I've come home. Only he still hasn't moved. I turn my face, but the light lingers on my irises, obscuring his face.

      "Well?" I prompt him.

      He steps forward and I go back to looking up. He sets the knife down next to my head and I close my eyes. There's another pause and I can hear his heavy breathing, his indecision, but it's not really indecision. I feel his fingers unbuttoning my blouse. It was a fortuitous choice of clothing. He pushes the fabric aside without touching my flesh. My back is tense, my palms pressed down at my sides.

      "Relax," he says.

      So I sink into the wood like I'm sinking into the ground. I hear him pick up the knife. I feel the blade as it touches the top of my sternum and I smile one last time.

Prophecy

      It took me a minute to realize where I was. The Portrait Gallery. An interesting choice. I walked down the unusually crowded corridor looking for him and sensing that he was close. Tourists talked about the paintings on the walls with interest as I pushed past them indifferently. I could see his dark coat moving ahead of me -- I was sure it was him. I was impatient, apologizing as I gently nudged a few people out of my way. Though I was moving quickly, he was faster, always just beyond my grasp and barely in my line of sight.
      "Stop." I said sternly, hoping it sounded like a command to be obeyed, but he kept walking. The only reaction came from those around me who stared in surprise and no doubt wonder at who I might be talking to.
      I exhaled through my nose and tried to catch up to him. He had gotten even further ahead and I could see him walking toward the main stairwell.
      "Stop." But he still didn't, and so I followed him, taking the steps two at a time.
      The second floor was almost deserted and I saw him smile over his shoulder thirty feet away from me. I smiled a little, too. He was incorrigible. He walked casually into one of the smaller rooms, his hands in his pockets like any other museum-goer. I sighed again and followed him, unencumbered. When I reached the doorway, I could see that we were entirely alone. Even through the doorway of the adjoining room (and the one beyond that), I didn't see another soul, not a curator or a guide or guard.
      He was standing with his back to me, strangely lit by the recessed lights above, silhouetted against the portrait he was examining so closely. I admired him, as I always did. I doubted I would ever cease to be amazed by him.
      "Tell me something." I swung myself around the doorframe into the silent room, feeling the sudden need to whisper.
      "There's nothing to tell," he said without moving, even to look at me.
      "Is he the one?"
      "Does it matter?"
      "Of course it matters." I moved closer to him, worried about the tone of his voice. "We both know I'm waiting for something very particular.
      "Yes, but as we also both know it makes no difference to you whether he's the one or not. You'll do precisely as you wish either way." He turned to me then with pursed lips, disappointment in his eyes.
      "Just tell me," I begged, touching his arm.
      "No." He refused me. His hands, no longer in his pockets, were clasped behind his back.
      "Don't do this," I pleaded.
      "As I said, you'll do precisely as you wish regardless of what I say. You already have, haven't you?"
      "Does my choosing him make him the one though?" I asked hopefully.
      "Absolutely not," he answered, his lips pulled even tighter. "How absurd." He stepped around me toward the next room.
      I followed him, my face flushed. We were still alone and I was grateful for that much. I couldn't make up my own mind between anger and embarrassment.
      "This is one of the simpler things I've asked for," I reminded him, trying not to sound as petulant as I felt. "Can't you make an exception this once?"
      "No. You've already chosen."
      "I don't want to needlessly break my heart though."
      "Really?" He looked at me then. His eyes hard.
      "No." I whispered the word, feeling it heavy in my mouth. I dropped my eyes from his gaze.
      He sniffed. "Just as I thought."
      I stepped close to him again, putting my hand back on his arm. "Stop me then."
      I looked into his eyes and I could see everthing there. I could see things happening as I'd imagined them. I saw the snowy winter night. I saw the city lights. I saw them light my own face and I could see the hope in my own eyes...
      He looked away, but I gripped his arm. "Tell me."
      "It will happen as you want."
      "But I don't know what I want."
      He shook off my hand. "I wish I could tell you that it would all end happily."
      I stared at the floor. "Does it end unhappily then?"
      "You'll have to wait and see."
      "Don't," I murmurred. "Don't leave me this way."
      I stood silently for a moment, not looking at or touching him, my eyes glued to the parquet. But then I felt his arms around me. I pressed my nose into his chest, wrapping my own arms around his waist.
      "I'm not trying to be mean," he said, kissing the top of my head and sliding his hand down my hair, pressing me closer.
      "I'm so afraid," I admitted. "I don't want to ruin everything and if...if I already have..."
      He shushed me, taking my face between his hands and lifting it fron his chest. He forced himself to smile, but his eyes were still disappointed.
      "It'll be all right. It always is."
      But I could already feel my heart breaking.

Stay

      I wipe the dust off my old stereo. I set it on the floor beneath the window and plug it in. The speakers don't quite work right anymore, but it will do. I open up the top and put the CD in, turning down the volume as it hums to life. Piano keys. Hammers and strings.

      I pull back the covers of this old twin bed. So many ghosts and memories sleep here, carefully collected over the years. How many heartbreaks? How many tears? How many sighs and laughs and regrets? I know that you'll be waiting just the other side of my eyelids. I know you'll chase the bad dreams away, replacing them with your arms, your fingers gently pushing back my hair. You'll sing me silent lullabies.

      I just wish that when I woke...

Dreams of memories not yet made

      I can tell you're getting closer. I can see you more clearly though your features remain indistinct. Except perhaps your hands which become more tangible every day. With each glimpse of the future I swear that I can feel them pulling me. Holding me. Keeping me. Can you feel me reaching for you too?

      There are more markers, more signs of when you'll finally arrive. I can see my face, even if I can't see yours, and it's transformed into an expression I barely recognize, one I can hardly believe is mine. It hints at how much I'm missing right now that I don't even know about, but I'm about to know. And I'm ready to know. Every day I wait, every day you get closer, I become more ready to know. Foolishly, I hope that I'll be ready in time. I say foolishly because I know your time will only come when I'm finally ready and not a moment before.

      Tonight I miss you without yet fully knowing you. I write out my secrets on bits of paper and tie them to the tails of the shooting stars, confident that you'll catch them as they fall out of the sky. If not tonight, then some night soon.

Red Repeat

      I was wearing the red dress. I clenched the fabric in my fingers, my other hand gliding along the wooden wall as I tried not to trip on the narrow steps. It was so crowded. His hands were on my hip, guiding me, steadying me, making sure I wouldn't fall. Our feet sounded like thunder as we hurried upward. I had to remind myself to breathe.

      Breathe. Breathe. In. Out.

      "Don't stop," I could hear him say.

      How much further?

      "Almost there."

      I reached the top landing where we were squeezing into a small, familiar room. I went instinctively to the spot near the window, willing myself to be invisible in his arms. He held my face against his chest, but behind my eyelids, I could see the fresh memory of their uniforms. The spotlight. The piano.

      I could see our feet, in slow motion, across the dance floor like a stampede. Our little melodrama repeating itself like a piece of frozen history.

      "It'll be all right," he said, kissing the crown of my head, my hair still pulled tightly up, the pins digging into my scalp.

      But I could almost feel the black boots on the same steps we just ran up. I could almost see them crashing through the door. I could almost hear the...

      "Quiet," he whispered.

      There wasn't a sound in the room. We all held our breath and mine was full of silent tears.

      A creak.

      A man's voice.

      All still below.

      I lifted my face to look at the door. Over my shoulder, out the little window with no screen or glass, the sky was clear. A perfect midnight blue, the stars a creamy white with each seeming to have a hazy glow. I could count the five points of Orion and I tried to take some comfort just from seeing him.

      And then we all heard it. Unmistakable. The thud of leather soles on hollow, weathered wood. Just one set of footsteps. No, two. We all looked at the door. How many pairs of eyes? Twenty? All illuminated by the moonlight through the single window above my head.

      I turned my face back into his chest, pulling his coat to my cheeks, wanting to crawl inside his chest to hide. I could feel his hands underneath my ribcage, pulling handfuls of me closer, almost as if he wished the same.

      They were getting closer now. It wouldn't be long until I'd be unfurled. I could almost see myself, the same as every time before.

heart.stop

      Can any love, once given, be considered a waste?

      Can any love, once given, be taken back?

Sailing Away

      I wish that I could say that it'd been too long since I'd last seen the ocean, but that's not really true. It hadn't been long at all -- a couple of months. But there's something about the ocean that makes the weeks feel like years. It's the way I feel about Orion's eyes. Even though the season of our love is six months long, those months are full of nights full of clouds (as they have been lately) that keep our hearts apart.

      I sat with my face to the breeze. People always think that there's quiet on the sea, but the opposite is true. All you can hear is the wind and the water and they're louder than we give them credit for. Even if the wind wasn't hitting the sails and even if the water wasn't pounding the boat, you'd still hear the wind whistling in your ear and out again; you'd still hear the waves hitting one another in haphazard battle.

      But this is better than silence. It makes the quiet in one's mind all the more pronounced. It was like being able to open a window to let all the emotion flow in. Flow over me.

      I sat with my knees to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. We were what, eight feet apart? Hardly more. But there would have been no way to talk. My back was to him. I may as well have been alone out there with my thoughts. And that was where I wanted to be.

      After a while, I forgot to blink and so the wind pulled the moisture from my eyes in the form of thin tears that were pushed off my cheek in a steady stream by the force of the same wind that had drawn them out. I could feel the holes inside of me being ripped open again. I could feel each one individually, and I stuck my fingers in them carelessly, stirring up the memories.

      The pain does help one feel alive.

      It was hours before I moved at all. I stood up, steadying myself by grabbing the taut ropes, my frozen feet gliding over the surface of the boat. I ducked into the cabin to pour myself a glass of water, and when I came up again, I offered to take the wheel. There was just as much room to think at the helm as there was at the bow. There was just as much gray water spread endlessly before me to let my eyes sink into.

      In the end, it's never enough though. In the end, I always leave the water unsatisfied for not having been able to stay longer; promising to return more quickly than the last time. I'm never sure whether or not I'll keep the promise when I make it, but I always want to. I always want to sail away.

How sweet the sound

      I'm empty of words. For some reason the day seemed determined to make me feel grateful for being alive, and in that gratitude I am robbed of any way to express it. After all, how can there be words right enough, beautiful enough, to describe the setting sun above a street lined with autumnal trees, the streetlights prematurely turning on as the evening cools by inches?

      I was drunk with love for the day today. The sunlight dancing with shadows on the sidewalk in the early afternoon. Watching people seemingly out in droves -- each living their own life apart and yet also a part of the rest of the world.

      I cooked and there was heaven in this. I bought produce at the local market. Peaches are going quickly out of season, but I found three I liked and bought them greedily, wanting to hold on to the remnants of summer, even as the fall becomes seductive with its tragic, sweet nostalgia.

      There was something about the feeling of the evening chill on my bare legs. I'm helpless to describe it, but I wanted to keep pulling it in and in, so that I might always feel it and it might always feel as new wondrous as it did tonight. Of course, that can never happen, just as the colors of the sunset can never stay on the clouds. Strange though, in the west tonight, I watched the sky grow to the brightest shade of blue, visible between the trees, even as the sky above it curved over top from the east, bringing the darkness of night. I was in awe of this. I wanted to catch my breath and hold it.

      And all day long I've been humming to myself "Amazing Grace." We sang it in church today, but who can ever sing "Amazing Grace" without a knot of tears in their throat? Not I, at least. I didn't mind my voice cracking with those around me before we headed out, en masse into the day, as I said already: grateful to be alive.

      I am not always grateful enough. Especially lately, I have not been grateful enough, and so with gratitude today, I've also felt shame. I live in a beautiful world, populated by more emotion than any sentient creature, let alone my humble self deserves. And yet I have the nerve to complain. To push the feelings away. To not want to feel new love because it is supposedly, "complicated." To not want to remember what makes this day stand out from the calendar because it "hurts." But what if it is and what if it does? I have asked before, and I will ask again -- is there not bravery in love?

      Lord, let there be bravery in love. I think that it is wonderful to be alive and I want so badly to stop pushing life away. I want to exalt in all things, small and smaller. I want to glorify things just because they are -- how right Miłosz's words are. The words of all the poets settle over me, stealing my own voice. I think about the sky, no higher than the soul is high, no wider than the heart is wide.



"Good night, faraway star.
Good night, bird on the wing.
      ...Good night, sweet-smelling rose.
            ...Good night, good night, good night."

Beloved Prophet (1972)

[New York]
Saturday, January 6, 1912

      Tuesday was much more a birthday than today. The reality of those few hours is a door which leads to a new sense of joy and a new sense of pain and a new vision of Life. I have tried many times since that evening to write to you, but each time I found myself so completely overwhelmed by a strange silence --the silence of deep seas and undiscovered regions --the silence of unknown gods. And even now as I write, I feel that the most terrible element in Life is a dumb element. The hours that pass before a mighty storm and the days that come after a great joy or a great sorrow are alike, dumb and deep and full of outspread wings and motionless flames.

K.