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Gratefulness
I wanted to feel stillness so I went for a walk, watched the cobblestones pass beneath my feet, then bricks, slate, dirt, concrete—
In the square, the grass was burnt from last week’s festival; on the corner, a man played saxophone and I wanted to tip him but had no cash.
It was spring: even the distant jackhammer seemed harmless to me in my weariness which returns like a season itself, and with it the impulse to flee or retreat, renounce, stop trying so hard to keep this life afloat, just let it sink, soundlessly, to the quiet bottom of something.
But there were birds, too, if I listened, and they made me look up to the soft clouds, and it is always hard to know whether they are rolling in or rolling out; whether the smell of charred meat in the streets is gruesome or enticing.
And regardless, you could find, on the sidewalk, a folded ten-dollar bill, and feel fortunate, for a moment, as I did, before wondering how many times I’ve lost as much or more, how many times I will be lost and found again.
From Notwithstanding, (Wet Cement Press, 2019). Posted by kind permission of Wet Cement Press.
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