It’s all in the ending, regardless of how it begins, causing water to steam, fire to crackle, earth to heat, air to move. The elements are angry, my worry stones tell me, as I roll them across my aching fingers, as they jump, biting at my bones.
Heavy bones, tired of the weight I carry, this burden of a love I’m supposed to feel, one that is written and raised, sun pinging off a peeling, faded golden seal, all perfunctorily created in some airy office in California by an hourly clerk I’ve never met. Intimacy marked by agency, diametrically opposed.
What a strange little dance we’ve created, this business of love, that which started from binding twine or ribbon to one-upmanship in millions of dollars in flowers that die, of clear, shiny rocks pulled out of caves on the backs of babies, of twinkly lights that carry no meaning. Yet, if every intimacy of marriage is different, how is it that the human condition of energy and fluid exchange is no different? The song remains the same.
My body moves me forward because that’s where I’m supposed to be. I can’t go back to that silent place of quiet fury and prickly doubt, feeling my worry stones compelling me to go, move, jump, girl!
Taking responsibility, blaming myself, for not creating enough crackling fire or earthy warmth, yet in the end, it wasn’t about that, really.
It’s not about me, or him, or us. It’s not about shedding the skins of blame or dusting the detritus of what little clarity remains. It’s about the energy surrounding us, undulating in circular waves and unseen, infinite patterns.
It’s a lie that all the elements work together in unison — they fight for prominence, just as we fight for the one we need, filling our core, giving us life.
I needed air to move.