Thirty-One: Weeks Twenty-Five & Twenty-Six

Days one hundred and sixty-nine through one hundred and eighty-two

Photo by Gabriel on Unsplash

Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them here.

Day One Hundred and Sixty-Nine (October 12th)
“Look,” I say, holding a bowl. “This is a bowl.”

You take the bowl, running your fingers over the smooth, rounded edges. You examine it from all angles. Then, inexplicably, you smash it on the ground. After it shatters, you say, “I don’t see a bowl.”

You allow me only a moment of shocked confusion before you take a shard of what used to be a bowl and slide it between my ribs. “I know a bowl when I see one.”

Day One Hundred and Seventy (October 13th)
I find myself grasping at words
that continue to slip through my fingertips.
I open my mouth to speak, but my lips
have forgotten how to make the correct shapes.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-One (October 14th)
Bad news blends the days into one, but there are still lights twinkling in the darkness. Hope has not been extinguished. 

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Two (October 15th)
Sometimes, my cat curls up against my stomach and purrs, and the vibrations make it feel like I’m purring, too. 

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Three (October 16th)
There is a calm that comes
with overwhelming exhaustion,
when nothing in the world matters
except for sleep. I lay my head down,
and the world is silent, if only
until I wake up again. 

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Four (October 17th)
Goldfish actually have excellent memories. The truth is out there. 

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Five (October 18th)
I sit in the passenger seat as we drive over the bridge, watching the light poles flash by at even intervals. Each one is slightly different. Some have one bird perched atop them. Some have two. I even saw two poles with three birds all in a row. Some lamps have no birds at all. Some have a bird in a nest. Some have only the nest. I sit there and watch them all shuffle into the most comfortable spot. Then I wriggle a bit deeper into my seat and close my eyes.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Six (October 19th)
Cicadas sound different in wide-open spaces. At home, the hardwood hammock that is my backyard muffles their song. It’s loud, but the trees brunt the full force of it. Here, amid the concrete, their shrieks pierce my eardrums like a toddler screaming for attention. Eventually, the quiet lull between choruses arrives, and I hear only the sounds of cars passing by. 

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Seven (October 20th)
Patti Smith’s version of “Midnight Rider” comes on as we leave the highway for the two-lane backroad and enter the liminal space of the swamp. An osprey soars overhead. The vegetation on either side of the road is so thick it feels like driving through a lush tunnel draped with sky. Still two hours to go until we reach our destination. 

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Eight (October 21st)
The sun draws moisture from my skin
and leaves it to fall in my eyes. 
I lick my lips to gather what was lost
and consume it with a little extra salt.

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Nine (October 22nd)
The sound of nearly forty V8 engines snarling. 
The vibration in your chest.
The smell of gasoline and burning rubber.
The relief of clouds floating over the blazing sun.
The taste of cheap beer and salted almonds.
The exhilaration of possibility. 

Day One Hundred and Eighty (October 23rd)
I could watch the birds all day. Seeing them fly—riding the updrafts and gliding on currents—I almost feel like I’m up there, too. One of us looks to the air. The other watches the ground. We aren’t close, but we are together. 

Day One Hundred and Eighty-One (October 24th)
My fan has started making unexpected noises. The small, uncertain clicking has disrupted my bedroom’s ecology. How can I sleep when my world has changed?

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Two (October 25th)
You always told me to use my words, but when I do, you tell me my words are wrong. Maybe you never cared what I had to say.

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