Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Glass doors and going home.

Right now I’m looking through the glass door at a waning day and the sudden fall of a deep blue, uneasy light. There is no time so uncertain as twilight. 

Sometimes I feel like an animal on display in this office. Passersby glance in the glass door because, of course you just can’t help glancing in a lit doorway. I sit here. And I sit here. And I continue sitting. I make eye contact with 43% of those who happen to linger in curiosity. Yes people, I’m drinking coffee. I’m listening to Viva La Vida and Iron and Wine. Yes, I’m just sitting here. 

But I’m going home in two days.

I feel like these past months are in the cupboard under my sink, keeping company with my unexplored junk: empty shampoo bottles, unopened bars of soap...webs of cords and clutter.  To try to sift through my immeasurable trail of constant thought since August would be like drinking an ocean. Consuming every grain of sand one by one. Counting grass and stars and specks and words and leaves. It would be insane. It would be wrong. There’s too much to know. 

I suppose it will come in waves over the summer. Hints of it will cross my mind in idle moments. As I pump gas, releasing my finger from the trigger while glancing up at the sky in syrupy heat of late afternoon, I will remember the moment I stood in the waving grass of a plantation home in Louisiana a long time ago. Spellbound. Struck with a sense of history and held perfectly still. Captivated.

There need be no correlation. Thoughts will come.  Lost seconds will resurface. I will be reminded with hints so slight as breath in winter, so vague as swallowed words and hapless action. Thoughts will come like inclinations of heartbeats when time froze and I lingered in embarrassment, in shame or pity and stress and wonder; these will rise as I cross a field in July or stop on the stairs on a clear morning, or slam my car door in a Wal-Mart parking lot, running late for something I can’t yet know. 

Abandoned feelings, skin-deep and wild. Neglected hours, simple and vivid. Forgotten instances, frenzied and clear.  I will wait for these disenchanted shrugs of memory, and become what I suddenly remember to realize, even in hollow recollections of faces, voices, and daylight spread out across Tennessee sidewalks. After all, whispers of memory are only illuminated windows on buildings I never noticed, like furtive glances through a glass door along the way.