5.29.99

Joan is gone. There is no need for me to wash my dishes nor tidy my things. I'm here alone every night this weekend, basking in it as an alternative to all the activity of the last week or two. (Feels like more.) I slept late and I've been sitting in the rocking chair just beside the window that looks out toward the big twisted tree in the backyard, reading. Tonight I made tea just for myself. Sitting in silence, in a dark house but for the light over the table. Malch'a first, adhering to every prescribed bow and gesture. Only ghosts present to perceive their meanings. Afterward I made poeech'a, infused three times. Thick and dark like coffee, one full decant from the stout little pot fills completely my cup. I was writing in my journal then, but stopped the process full to hold the tiny cup to my lips, breathing in slowly the aroma of earth in that dark blood liquid. Slurp a little sip for taste then drink it all away. I see through the darkness the white wicker rocking chair glowing out in the backyard. It's the moon. Quiet shelter in the midnight hour; I feel like walking over to the pane, the floorboards creaking beneath my slippered feet. I have to lean into the glass, craning my neck upward, to see the stars. Moon not seen by me, just her gaze. But in that moment, in those stellar formations, I feel immediately the forms of countless lovers huddled beneath them, guided upward by the light and love and chill that press them together.

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