The Space Between
If there is room to care for something, what else can you do?
I have never been one to flinch at my shadow, or the unexpected lank of a spider. With active bleeders, I will triage, lips and teeth, the tip of my tongue, tracing the harsh t in “coagulate” — parsing together a lattice of kinder words, bracing against the space, against, oh! There is sometimes so much space. And then, a flutter.
It’s started to snow cottonwood seeds; you’ll find them floating at the edges of the pavement. Strike a match, and they will burn away, trailing lines of embers. Or they’ll just be blown away. Which of the two would you prefer?
My friend and I spirit flowers to one another in an empty honey jar. I suppose it started out of convenience, a space from whence to fill with color, bright, crisp, thirsty stems, submerged, then walked or driven the odd mile or so between our homes. First, it was ranunculus, heads bowed on necks too thin to hold, then I was gifted lilacs from her yard, open blossoms — another flower facing gravity.
In discomfort, there is change, at least that’s what they say. I imagine these changes at the cellular level, bones shifting, cells colliding, a beat that flickers, like the whirring of machinery, or the rapid thrum of wings.
My hummingbird friend returned this week. I hadn’t changed the water since he’d gone away, and the dregs inside were meagre. I carry the feeder to the sink, scraping away the last few months of weather. I pour in too much sugar and, with my head on my arms, watch as it dissolves, a sodden, greyish mass sinking toward the red cap at the bottom. Yellow plastic flowers on the side begin to weep, and then the whole thing topples. I right the bottle, my fingers coming away covered in a sugary paste. Hot water to clean, scooping sugar with my hands, remedying. If there is room to care for something, what else can you do?
