Essay
The Sargasso Sea
Grief floats…
Most of the time I wake with a brutish, sudden start. If I look at my second husband’s overly complicated alarm clock, it will say 3:33. To be honest, I’ve almost quit looking at that plastic mess of dials and sliders.
I live with certainty that my first husband is my timepiece. In this, he allows me opportunities to witness and connect with him.
I’m guessing the numbers on the clock are more than just hello.
Free, free, free. Relax and go back to sleep.
My heart pounds in the waking. I feel it in my ears, like a paint bucket drum solo. House sounds are muffled and as I become aware of the way tiny, homey noises are altered, I feel my body is partly floating, partly supported.
I am not on a cloud.
This raft is a toxic, itchy mass. Each of a million points of body contact is painful. Pity me that I’ve gotten used to it. I’m not exactly unbothered but I’ve given up on another way of being.
Having given up is a metaphor for acceptance. The concepts shouldn’t be synonymous. One assumes a moment where I forget who I am and the other knows reality.
I’ve bitten into the juicy apple of the real world and every bite comes with a worm.
