#unopening

I had an old life that kept repeating. I was the shell drawn off and on the more or less same shore. But not just "drawn" or "tossed" or "drifting" for I was also the flower: opening, opening-- or so I felt. It would take years to see I'd rigged the elements against the very exposure I thought I sought. The house that stands for many was mustard. Largely carpeted. Offered almost enough hot water to wash my hair and shave my legs. For the nth time, I arranged the furniture, draped the couch and chair, jammed the bed frame's screws in the wrong then right notches. The small new thing I bought to mark that beginning was chosen for the eye of an imaginary beholder, the same one I pictured assessing the titles on the coffee table or eating the tomatoes I tended. Even the house itself was rented in part for the chance to offer its directions: Pass the abandoned car shop, take the first gravel road to your right... Evenings, I'd sometimes drive to the closed bridge, then reread the graffiti while slowly walking its span. What did Gina look like, I'd wonder, who loved Dusty? Did someone still think Sylvie would be 4ever? Had a male or female written Treehuggers Suck Dick, an individual or group that There are no girls in this town? After reaching the bridge's far side, I'd return to its center where Good Night Bynum was sprayed in wide black letters, each word capped. Good Night Bynum, I'd whisper, palms pressed to the cement ledge, Good Night Sweet Bynum, a watered down Ophelia watching herself watch the waters run. The trees that lined the banks would have been thinning in the cooler air, losing the thick green haze they'd possessed when I arrived. I saw their roots instead, those gnarled attempts to hold what the water would continue to erode.