An Assortment of Not-Rights

You become accustomed to the constant kneading of your flesh, the silver-plated horse hooves marching all over the thick of your skin throughout the year in sync with the seconds. Heavy. A good rhythm with a full thud. Slightly bruising but feels good in certain hollows. And around the clock, down the decade, the horsemen ride at a constant pace. Easy to ignore when they never falter. 

They continue as I sit at dinner – family-owned Chinese place, dim lighting, rows of empty tables on a Tuesday at 4:35 p.m. but the kitchen’s busy. 4:35 p.m. and it’s dark outside. 4:35 p.m. I sit in front of him with a syrupy hesitation in my throat. This is not my person, I know. But it’s New Jersey in the winter and I blame the melancholy on the sun schedule.

I think about the stream beside my elementary school that we had walked along the previous weekend, deer standing in the shallow parts. 2011-2015: the river swelled much stronger, foaming from the strength of the rapids in the deep ends. The other girls and I, toes pruning in the water everyday after school. To think I’ve overridden those early memories with these new walks by the stream – perhaps more fresh, but not as significant within the greater saga. And this stream pales in comparison to its previous surge.

And I sit here, stirring the cup of tea. Each circle loosens the honey, thick at the bottom; I purposefully drag the spoon along the side to make up for a stuffy silence. Grainy saxophone jazz playing in a restaurant that doesn’t quite have the essence to, and I’m looking at everything but him. Wildfires in the Tri-State Area, the TV behind him plays. Framed newspaper clipping of a dazzling food critique. Sticky residue on the table beside us & the grime against the table leg.

Later that night, he stands against the doorframe as I put the last of the washed clothes in my drawer. It’s a distinct feeling, to know that he knows too. 

When it ends, it’s quite the opposite of dramatic. It takes form as a quiet reemergence into reality, a stark reminder of my youth. I feel hooves pressing against my brain stem, tailbone, bruises as revitalizing as oxygen. They scrape the acne on my back, now open wounds. Burning and raw and I think, I love the feeling. Makes me want to eat dirt, worms and all. Makes me want to dig until I find freshwater, to wash the soil from my teeth. Makes me want to rest against the Redwoods.