sans soleil

“Dear Orpheus, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I was afraid. I’m not worthy of you. But I still love you, I think. Do not try to find me again. You would be lonely for music. I want you to be happy again. I want you to marry again. I am going to write out instructions for your next wife. To my Husband’s Next Wife: Be gentle. Be sure to comb his hair when it’s wet. Do not fail to notice that his face flushes pink like a bride when you kiss him. Give him lots to eat. He forgets to eat and gets cranky. When he’s sad Kiss his forehead and I will thank you. Because he is a young prince And his robes are too heavy on him. His crown falls down Around his ears. I’ll give this letter to a worm. I hope he finds you. Love, Eurydice.”

“As soon as you begin to ask the question, Who loves me? you are completely screwed, because the next question is How Much? and then it is hundreds of hours later, and you are still hunched over your flowcharts and abacus, trying to decide if you have gotten enough. This is the loneliest job in the world: to be an accountant of the heart. It is late at night. You are by yourself, and all around you, you can hear the sounds of people moving in and out of love, pushing the turnstiles, putting their coins in the slots, paying the price which is asked, which constantly changes. No one knows why.”

How do you deal with grief? I just can't stop the overwhelming feeling of it.

“You have survived so much that no one remembers. And you still spread warm rain on all your overgrown lots. And you still get dressed in the morning. You still open wide for the sun.”

“I’m still a difficult woman who startles easy. I still forget to wash the apple before I eat it. I’m still oddly thankful for the rush of hot air let off from the sides of buses. Like things could be hotter, grosser. I’m still doubtful my stories possess a clear point. The sound of men gulping water still bothers me. I still interrupt. I’m still unprepared for how unusual it feels to receive a postcard; the traveled touch of card stock; of tapered handwriting chasing vertically up the side, allowing for a squished, tender sign-off. Thinking of you. Miss you. An unforeseen Yours. Even the faint sound of a postcard falling through my mail slot and landing on my floor is, somehow, still enchanted. I still prefer counting to fourteen instead of ten. I still don’t mind, perhaps I even like, ice cream’s cold swallow rising up my throat so I can swallow it back down again. I still only have nightmares when I take naps. I still wonder what stops me, what version of me would exist had I let someone take my picture when I was younger, wearing a bikini with my hair up, while in the background an out-of-focus lake contrives to mislay the mood. Because hanging over pictures of lakes and girls and summer is the impression, often, of a missing person. I still have trouble discerning between loneliness and solitude, and Sundays, and Schubert’s sonatas. I’m still dismally unfunny; restless when I sit on grass; too much of a daughter to forget about the dead. Even though I own none, I still love the size of LP records. Their square, tactile bigness. And I still believe that people who buy them and collect them aren’t snobs at all, but true blues … It still comes as a shock to me how irreversible life is. How there’s no going back to whatever version of me existed before I saw that movie—the kind that switches me on to new streaks of consciousness by showing me a woman I feel strangely, formerly, acquainted with.”

“The sky opens up like it is happy to see us. Here comes some beauty. Eager and broken light.”