You lurch and stumble into a place, blink, and recognize everything. Relief subsumes you. Had a year passed? three? was it as little as the last rainfall? as much as when you stood exposed for the first time in front of your house, the sith pulled from the heart of the eternal tree to be lain out for consumption?
Across from me she sits, sat. Struggling from confusion to articulate the time-travel of waking up to oneself at 41 no more grown than the nervous child, the tinny squawk of music reverberating through speakers in someone's car or house not far off graciously gives me another venue for establishing clarity and normalcy to the morning; I tell her how the sound depresses me, downplaying the vital experience you feel when music is intimate, near, heard by you alone. You can't share your essence without losing it; the soul suffers no external scrutiny and recedes when drawn out for public display. Could we ever tell each other something, I wonder. The bridge, do we construct it together or cross it to get to the other?
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