In the Event of My Abscence
Perhaps. Between heaven and hell typifies an experience outside the pain of childbirth, beyond the anguish of loss, and the perpetuity of the arctic, hospital waiting room—where, like the airport, the masses wait anxiously for their arrivals and departures. Here, is what I am writing about now. Somewhere where someone cannot absolve; they are spaces where I cannot let go. Therefore, ghosts still walk on my paper and step all over my canvas and pull my hair at night.
(Disperse them into the deep.)
Faith. Though, I, with no assurance, believe in it, believe it or not. I see it in the rising of the sun as I go over Bayside Bridge through Clearwater. I hunt for its arrival each day. It’s a true wonderment. What will it be like this morning? Sometimes it peeks through like a piece of sliced orange. And when the darkness forces the sun down into the water, refusing it air, I often wonder in this world of stop and go; yes, no’s and maybes and the many man-made contraptions that obstruct the perfect vista of the sun, I might have just found my way or at least had better reception for the time being.
(See the affable children’s faces pressed to window. )
If I die now, my ex-husband can say what a worthless mother I am and my children can be angry with me for abandoning them, which they might just say anyway. And all my lovers may come out of the woodwork to compare notes about favorite sexual positions and all concluding after all that I was one crazy bitch. You may pardon me for forgetting Joel Olsteen’s sermon on TV this morning, something about loving ourselves.
(Wave to them.)
Even when I arrived at the scene the year I was born at Angeles City, Philippines, naked amongst the blaring horn and bright lights, I perhaps might still slip unknowingly out of here like a brief scuttle through the water.
If I go now, who will inherit my bad credit, my many reminiscences and regrets? Who will overturn the soil for the next planting season, for the garden I never grew? Who will find me the man who will mourn for me, who will write me love letters like Henry Miller? Buy the cape in Provincetown, with my unfettered stories upon my mahogany desk that I never owned?
(Kiss them goodnight.)
But sometimes it’s not enough to say you’re sorry—the offense occurred—so you write it down, draw it in your notebook, might even transfer it to canvas and frame it. What is the shape of love, the color of miracles? You ruminate. It’s just over to the left as you go over Bayside Bridge or somewhere where someone cannot absolve; they are the spaces where I cannot let go, that’s where I see it, love.
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