I want so to say that i feel your pain, but we’d both know that was an utter lie.
I can tell you abut my pain, describe it at great length, and I will be utterly disappointed when you admit you can only imagine it as a reflection of your own pain, which I am certain doesn’t begin to rise to the level of mine, but that is your failure, and I will forgive it for I know that my pain is unique and beyond even your imagination.
So let us just agree that each of our pains is beyond the contemplation of the other, secure in our own uniqueness.
The Hawaiian language has 12 letters which is important to understand particularly if you consider writing an apostrophic poem, not to a person or thing, but to a letter of the alphabet.
It might help to explain why Hawaiian poets never write about zoology or the role that zygotes play in life, and leave zymurgy to the haoles, for native Hawaiians prefer a linear life, free of endless zigs and zags
I don’t imagine I will try and learn Hawaiian any time soon, although with twelve letters, I’d have an easier time of it than Russian, say, but nor will I write an apostrophic poem to the letter Z although I will open a bottle of zinfandel to honor it.
He is, he claims, a practitioner of feng shui, and will, for a nominal fee, arrange our home in the harmony it requires.
His fee, of course, is nominal to him only, and hardly one we would incur with the expenses of a new home, with two of too many things, and none of some necessities, which our local merchants will provide for their own nominal fees.
And I don’t know that I want to pay to watch him move two small pieces of pottery and rehang our art so that whatever Chinese gods he channels will be pleased, all while taking our home away from us and leaving a place of his we merely inhabit.
My first inclination, in fact my strong desire, when he asks me what time it is, is not to consult my watch, but to say that we live in an age of unprecedented uncertainty, an era of division and incivility, and days fraught with risk that each might be the last.
I know he wants to know the hour and the minute, but if he is late, the moment wasted in knowing just how much so merely adds marginally to the problem.
And if the question lacks that import to him, then time is no more than a human construct, malleable despite our demand of rigidity, and subject to the whims of Popes and politicians, and all the rest of nature can only marvel at our absurdity.
As I stare out the window and watch the snow slowly build on the limbs of the now barren crab apple, painting it with a whiteness that bears heavily, giving the smaller branches a better view of the ground in which their fruit of the summer lies buried.
I am forced to wonder if the tree continues to watch me, if its vision is clouded by the snowy blanket in which it wraps itself this day, and if it does, what must it think of someone so sedentary when it, bearing its winter burden can still dance gently in the morning wind.
He says he cannot believe in angels because he has never seen one. I do not believe in his sort of angels, but not for lack of visual confirmation, rather that I live in a world that now is so deeply in need, that an angel might be our last, best hope, but the scope of angelic miracles is not likely wide enough to encompass the utter disaster which we have created.
I tell him that I do believe in angels, that I have met several in my life, and scowl when he laughs so that he must consider that I am serious, and then he asks what an angel looks like, so he will recognize one when and if he ever sees one.
I advise him that you don’t have to search all that hard, that you merely need to be aware, and watch the face of the baby when you stop and coo at him or her as they lie in their stroller, staring up at the always welcoming sky.
On this night he walks silently into her dream uninvited, but she is used to the incursions. On other nights it is she who sidles up to him in the depths of dreaming, each slipping away ahead of dawn. On rare nights each enters the dreams of the other, paths crossing at the synaptic border. On those nights she looks for him, he for her, each grows fearful the he or she will be trapped, alone, when dawn arrives and the body gently wakes, she or he wandering lost in a familiar alien reality.