A Certain Slant of Light

Emily talks about a certain slant of light.
Emily -- that was almost your name, changed somewhere, sometime a year or so before you divided cells, then multiplied them and built upon them, the little bricks, the little morsels of toes, fingers, soft little belly, landing on the planet with a smile. Happy to be here, you seemed to say, and right at home, too.
Odd little thing but then I remember you in Cinderella blue and Casey, at five, remarking in wonder at how very pretty you were. Were you three or four? Walking the dark haunted suburban street, you ran to the big kids resting on the corner and called out, "Trick or Treat," your plastic pumpkin outstretched. "We're trick or treating too," they said with a laugh. You took that piece of wisdom for your treat.
Now you're seventeen, the favorite babysitter of crazy little kids. And might I add you paid some dues, my young one. You did the things you did not want to: those awful classes, winding your hair in zombie dreds, holding the shattered chin high. You pushed your head through plate glass windows and smiled. Right at home, and happy to be here, you said.
You must be tough, I always said and pulled out that old story like the Queen of Swords I kept in my backpocket: my grandmother comforting the sheriff, who came to evict her and her children from their home on the hill. "This is how strong the women in our family are," I told you.
Why am I writing all this? Because I must call up those moments -- gone!
Like so much dust.
But here's a moment: the two of us walking up the hill, the dog on his purple leash. Twilight. Magic hour the moviemakers call it. And you always say how this time of day cuts into your soul and leaves it gaping open and raw. And I tell you how this time of day made me mad when I was young. Not angry but crazy like my life was a straightjacket and I had to get out -- go out -- sieze the night and drink it like blackberry wine.
There is a certain slant of light, Emily says, that falls heavy. Heaven hurt, she calls it. Heaven hurt.

Free Write -- The Pier

This place is black and dark blue and dark steel gray. It is endlessly moving. It is alluring. I stand on the edge of the pier at night. A night in June. The soft skin of my daughter's arm bumping against me. I glance at her wise expression, wondering what is she thinking, dreaming of, wishing for. I am busy framing my own wishes, desires. And intermittantly wondering what would it be like to plunge like a stone into that black mass below. It seems that could do it, that you could jump into that water unscathed and the surface and swim to the shore. Someone must have tried it. If I had come here drunk, I'm sure I would have.

But I am not drunk. I am also not suicidal. This is not a suicidal thought. But the urge is there, to let go, to fall through the warm air, forgetting, forgotten. A challenge, I guess. It seems like a test of courage, of strength, of fortitue. Is that what I crave even now? The courage to let go, to trust, to fall, to plunge and then steadily swim to the shore.

All year I dream about the ocean. Two nights ago I was there and for a brief interlude content. I am dark as that ocean, I have no idea what is there in my silent depths.