And so we reach —
Arms and fingers stretching,
Through the water to the air above
Grabbing fistfuls of oxygen to compel ourselves to breathe,
To see you were above ground the whole time
In suspense of animation.
Your breath may catch to realize:
The dead animal by the steps in the half-light is a pile of leaves and debris,
Beauty is what you make of it,
Skyscrapers are colossal piles of empty tin cans and newsprint,
And the flash across your eye of a loved one most missed is a trick of light
And memory.
And what a trick it is!
Ghosts are no more real than we are, or no less —
Apparitions with nervous systems,
Frantic to reconcile from whence and whom we come and to where we eventually go, to say nothing of the why,
All wrapped up in the business of the here and now
Where assimilation is the prize.
But those who know, know:
All these trappings are a trap,
And judgment in no way presupposes correctness.
So maybe you fall
Back into the water.
And you can’t breathe but you can fly, and maybe you prefer that sense of
Freedom.
[inspired by Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping]
caroline ridgway 