If I distill my life down to moments,
a cup of coffee at 7 am,
its bloom of steam
drifting above the dark liquid,
like fog;
the shock of cold air against sleep-warm skin
when I take the dog out, door slamming,
frozen rain clicking,
against the ice-crusted driveway…
then I can move forward,
only then.
Is this a life?
This collection of disposable days,
untethered from past or future,
is this meaning?
My grief makes me whither and hide,
it erases my purpose
like a hand reaching down,
smearing the careful construct
of my better self.
There’s comfort in picking up a moment,
separating it,
if only to watch it dissolve into the next one.
There’s reassuring certainty,
in the unraveling.
I recognize the freedom
in these isolated days,
if not deep satisfaction,
never that.
I’m knitting each new row of stitches,
then undoing all the knots,
so there will be no warm blanket,
no striped scarf,
no bulky wool hat…
nothing to show anyone in the end.
Eventually, even the yarn disintegrates
as if it never existed at all.