The days end like that, the same way they begin, me on my side gripping a pillow, wondering what day it is. Walking the steps at work, up the parking lot floors: walls made out of cinder block, what it would feel like to touch them.
I flick the night light, the closet light, the bathroom fan, the shower. Feed the cats, the dog, pour the coffee. Time to write, to light a candle for some magic.
I walk to the lake with the dog and the leaves on the ground are no different than the days we try to save when we stop and look at them, think how pretty, tuck one in a book, and forget.
We are in the game of trapping moments, cupping them with our hands. Each is sacred on its own, put into a new context, framed on the ground: the leaf caught in its last moment here, caught on fire and fallen flat, soon to be raked up or blown away with the others. We save the leaf to preserve that moment and then it seems silly when we discover it later.
Over the hill as the rain is beaten back and a rainbow bends across the sky: how can it be that it looks real but you still can’t touch it? That it can be there for everyone to see, and not there at the same time. And how we can pass in and out of life feeling the same.