/ Leeks and Sprouts

I have a bit of an unhealthy fascination I am loathe to admit because it is morbid, but I am a bit envious of people who go through some sort of severe trauma that won't lead to long-term disability but nevertheless results in the loss of the ability to ride a bike.

I have always wondered how I would relearn how to ride a bike. Or walk. Or read. How would I face those tests again? What would it be like to command your arms and legs to do what they always did so easily and nevertheless fall flat onto your side?

I was listening to an educator speak about her research, and she kept coming back to the analogy of the brain as a tree, and that all learning had to start with roots because you never saw an apple blossom in midair, right? she asked. The seed, unlike the egg, unquestionably came first.

I have never liked this analogy, because I am a bloody hearted liberal and think it disrespects the tree, but then she said, I was trying to teach an older person how to read, and he said, 'I don't want to be a child again!' and somehow that moved me. It made me realize that this unhealthy fascination of mine with relearning my childhood skills is misplaced fantasy.



I am stealing my own guest posts this week. Today I am stealing back from Sarah.

I have whiled away the most recent day with a mental game you just have to play, I say. Imagine, and then I pause, for effect, for composure, for old lang's sake, for the big surprise of the night before, that holding hands in a dream compares favorably to the real world phenomenon, with points lost for the scent of magnolia in the air, but gained for complete lack of sweat or fear that someone is actually watching.

Imagine, I continue, and see that no one else is around, but still, these games we the people play in order to form a more perfect union, that you have come down with an illness that has taken away your ability to speak. The doctors have found some unfortunate treatment, an insufficient cure that has even the snaky oilmen crafting new campaign promises: they can only restore three words to your vocabulary.

What words do you choose?

In this walk up the hill, I learn that these moments aren't marked by verses of poetry, or any words at all for that matter, but by the rise and fall of fingertip pressure, heartbeat, then 'good night.' I learn how many steps you take along the path before you stop, turn, and see that she is no longer there. I know this is right. That these are the needs we neglect far and wide, short and near. That I've learned to live without, and can continue. But not promises. Promises are the crystal spheres of a thousand tiny shards of glass, not haphazardly undone, not so keen to come apart.

I learn that there are three words that will remain in my vocabulary to the last. The first is Desire.

* * *


I am late for work the morning next, it's not just the sleep I'm wiping from my eyes but the memory and the color of the sky. The brittleness of my fingernails speaks to health neglected in favor of habits, but good humor, too, the constant reminder of ice cream truck bells ringing in my ears.

What are those? Alcohol shakes? The irish cream numbing the taste of the tiny fingers who picked these beans.

Alcohol shakes? Mmm. Those sound tasty. What's in 'em?

It's more a symptom than a beverage, she says.

It's what it's.

I can be annoying with my tendency to walk away when you take your eyes off me, a habit that usually starts in childhood and only rarely lives long enough to pass on to a new generation of wanderers. I come back to my coffee cup when the coaster's clear. Pick it up. Put it down. Pick it up. Put it down. At the door, walk back, pick it up. Put it down. In the car, I wonder if it's because I always like to leave a little behind.

My second word is Forever.

* * *

I want to ask the question so badly, I'm killed with the curiosity, salted in my footsteps, but I'm not terribly interested in opening my mouth, down to my last word, knowing I have to save it. Knowing that I'll waste it. Knowing that I'll react, like the heat of the sunlight reaching the solvent in the dippy bird. My knee jerk's connected to the foot in my mouth.

I have said it so many times in my life that it seems wasteful to select it as my final word. I have felt its permanence at the hospital departures. Goodbye, I whispered. I have understood its intransigence when the door is slammed in your face. Goodbye! she screamed. I have known its hollow ache, when the uncertainty of whether or not it is meant keeps either of you from committing it to the heavy, salt sea air. Goodbye, we think.

I look back upon the rules and question whether or not I can communicate Desire with a look in my eyes, or hold my breath and insinuate Forever. But I know that even given a thousand new words, symbols and sighs would not atone for this poor choice of Goodbye.

I'm not sure if I like this game.