Monday, April 4, 2011

what i heard, what i did

there was suddenly a baby next door. the only reason i knew this was because i heard it crying when i was leaving or coming. this is evidence that something i cannot see or feel can exist yet.

i read w.b. yeat's poem "the lake isle of innisfree" at my grandfather's memorial. i apologized for crying and the tall bagpiper with the bleached blond hair played amazing grace so steadily i thought i would faint.

i began running again, picking up where i left off some time ago. i ran down to the bay everyday. i saw that the flowering red currant and indian plum were in bloom. in the soupy gray of the bay i saw surf scoters and barrow's goldeneyes, a merganser and a western grebe.

i wondered why i couldn't hear the baby crying through the shared wall of our apartment. i wondered if it was really there.

i picked myself up. i cleaned the apartment and swept the floors. i put on a pretty blouse and called my friends over. we played twister in the dining room. amid all the laughter, i only thought of the baby once (but if i cannot hear it, it cannot hear me).

sometimes, when i ran for a long time, my feet fell asleep, but i was able to keep going. i am always able to keep going.

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