Inventory
Let's take inventory:
Books started but not finished.
Friends I miss, and
laughter. The big belly, cheek-bursting variety. Being able to reach absurdity through solemnity.
Tenderness. In every form and gesture I've ever known it.
This way of letting myself go that feels like head thrown back and hands released and hanging by my side.
The times I've believed in magic or felt it draw near, like a ballet rehearsal by a summer fountain and a tutu sprinkled with twinkle lights.
"The world is here for you, for this moment," they seemed to whisper.
My body vibrant and vital, my passion streaming through creative channels and not just rage.
The impulse that shot me straight out of bed in the morning, no matter how early it came.
Looking in a mirror with recognition.
Ocean waves and the call back thundering in my chest.
Prairie.
Sky.
My mother's cheek against mine.
Food that makes my mouth grateful to be alive.
The year that tears came every day. They had somewhere to go, then.
Feeling lost and then finding myself again. How the finding was so sweet.
The future as something to look forward to.
Not wondering if any color is left in my cheeks because I felt it coursing through.
The fleeting feeling, in red shoes stepping onto a stage, of being made for a moment.
Times when beauty sustained, like something that could be ingested and made part of me.
Headstones and graves reminding me I'm still this side of Earth's surface.
Knowing what to do next.
Falling into the net. Being caught.
Being held. Being held. Being held.
So what is there now, anyway, if all of that was back then?
Now there is the day and how I let it happen to me.
Now there is surviving. Trying to live through and fighting for others to live, too.
Now there is my body, obedient enough to keep taking its place in this chair and waiting.
Now there are the words Keep Going, even though we scarcely know what they mean anymore.
Now there is alive, not in any explosive kind of way but just the still-beating, still-breathing kind.
Now there is just the now.