VOLONTÉ

she sends me pictures of the pastries that she bakes; whenever i call her, during idle hours alone, she says, "Oh, just making a pie crust," like it's some sort of mantra; her love is filled with pears and almonds, making my teeth sticky, drowning in sweetness.

i try to make words, like i've been there, that i know the things she must feel, but this is the lie, the groping in the dark to connect a line, assure her: we are not fumbling mad.

I asked how checked out our distance aunt has become. "I would say 85, if not 90 percent." "Man, that's heavy."

i like the sentiment, not having our guilt fetter us from advancing; every day, in itself, the unworked block of wood: we chisel at it, carving new faces, allowing them to pile upon themselves.

i want to find peace buried within me; my mother’s magnolia  flowers swaying, their weight bending the branches of the tree.

This was during the late 2010's. I was back in graduate school for an MA in English, earning grants to pocket the cash, already aware I would be dropping out next semester. I originally went back due to a breakup. She insisted I had no direction, which made her believe there could be no future together. I couldn't blame her, at least now in hindsight. Back then, it was a crippling realization.

During the day, I read Murakami novels, working at the reference desk at the public library. The pay was terrible, the work sometimes overly convoluted, with a surprising about of bureaucracy, but, mostly, it was easy. At night, I moonlighted as a bartender for a Mediterranean pub. That, too, was mostly easy. Graduate school fell somewhere in the middle, and before long a nervous eye-twitch developed from 60-hour workweeks.

I'm not currently at the beach, but it's something I daydream about whenever it gets cold in my home-office or the traffic noise outside my window gets to be too destructive. It's a busy two lane road that cuts through i-20 near the heart of Atlanta. I hate it. Sometimes I think the constant noise of rigs and roaring Chargers will expediate any dementia waiting to creep its way out, like a demon released of its seal. Anyway, I'm only thirty and our family has a good track record of being very aware to the very end when dying of old age.

Breakfast today was a lox bagel. I first started eating lox after reading an interview with Jeff Bridges. He described it as his favorite meal to make. I think of him as I layer thin sheets of smoked salmon on a whole wheat bagel, with some sort of chive cream cheese sandwiched between the two. Finally, sprinkle fresh dill weed on top, for color and taste. Keep it simple.

I sit down for work with black coffee and my lox. These days I am a software engineer, a corporate daydreamer, which is a big jump from college town bar manager a couple years prior. I always hated applying myself, but it was sink or swim after the pandemic swept across our little rock. Now, I sit cozy, making enough money to live comfortably without wearing out my back lifting kegs of Bud Light to get underage undergrads drunk. Sometimes I get stoned while creating collections in databases, sitting through mindless meetings, or watching YouTube videos wondering if someone will actually document an actual ghost one day; but the weed doesn't mix well with my anxiety medication, so I've been trying to pump the brakes on that.

My coworker recently moved to the beach, which is why I am daydreaming about sand, craving waves. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, the traffic outside can sound like the ocean breaking. It's a long-shot and takes some focus, but I can get there if I really try. I never wanted to live in the city, or at least it never attracted me. Before here, it was Milledgeviille, middle-Georgia, where Flannery O'Connor spent her final days dying in Andalusia.

we danced in a circle of a cafe, her hair was like golden sunlight, shimmering off her shadow, but soon she recomposed and said, ”I can’t.”

i ended up taking my roommate, a drunk irishman, who did too much cocaine watching the fast and furious movies.

sunlight baby brown bagged a tallboy, stopping by the next day and apologized for saying no, where she calmly explained that she was in love with me and the ring glimmering on her finger was not to prevent old men hitting on her in our cafe.

I sat with him as he ate, petting his coat, picking his scabs, talking to him:

Today my uncle died, Leukemia, ain't that something? I would ask him about the green suit he would wear, working the recycling plant: "You look like some hero."

watching old clips of Mad Men, trying at feigned human interaction; it's been some time now that i have stepped into a bar.

i used to become so eager at filling my life with experience, shoveling garbage into a wagon, listening to the bells ring against the alleyway, stunned by the beauty of Summer nights.

i would cry so often over things i have now forgotten, no hope for salvation for the things i have given away for where i am now.

Some hours later, it found the nerve to move, creeping beside the house and being led to the backyard, through the driveway, where it might have more room to stretch.

When I looked out of my window and saw its parents cawing at one-another, bumping each other like how we argue, I decided to see if the baby didn't make it.

I found it down the basement steps, fallen almost six feet, it stared up at me, almost asking, "Why this?"

I built a miniature staircase out of the bricks of our walkway, stacking them enough for him to climb out; if he could make it up, then maybe he could make it.

That night I dreamed of feathers, tussling in the wind, and the voices of birds filled my ears, until the nondescript tones morphed into pleading melodies: "Let us live, live, live."

Summertime heat always reminds me of being twenty and broke, walking through dried grasses, too tall to be seen from the cars off the highway; a girl I loved, she led me, orange dress and black hair rippling the way water flows.

Time does its work, and memories, despite their best efforts, are reconstructions.