“I want to believe
that if I get the story right…”
Nick Flynn, “Father Outside”
Sunday I sit at the computer pulling my words and photos into a new form, something palpable. A book. January and February already feel like a lifetime ago, back when I took photos of my funky shoes against the yellow and cream floor tiles or christened the year with my stated intentions: Practice. Reverence. Play. The cats atop the refrigerator, another tumble of vegetables chopped on a vinyl cutting board. It may be a thing of midlife, this awareness of how quickly my days scamper into the past. Already I’ve left behind the birthday cake Britt and the kids baked for me in Fort Collins, how carefully Lewis spread the frosting. Already FG and I have lost our tans. Already those students have gone; new ones have taken their place.
And so I’ve been saving them, those days, tugging them toward the page one paragraph at a time. The night Maryjean brought over four paintings of Annabella and propped them on the counter. The weekend I spent folding clothes into black trash bags before handing them to a cheerful man at Goodwill. The white peacock strutting a South Austin street. Even as I slip into the future, the past keeps creeping forward. My father had been gone four years when I photographed his pale blue cap. The thickets of winter brush had been cleared before we spent a mild March Saturday planting. James had left his house empty when the wisteria floated its purple tendrils toward the ground.
I’ve chosen not to wear a wristband that tracks my steps and heartbeats and how often I roll over at night because I say I don’t want to know so much about myself. Really I don’t want another form of self-examination through which to filter my days. I take a photo. I write a paragraph. I capture the bright noon when I read a poetry manuscript over a bowl of bi bim bap. The twirl of a woman’s dress as 8 ½ Souvenirs spun its jazz. I want to believe that if I get the story right I’ll hold onto some of it, this moment smack dab in the middle of my life. Not too old. Not too young. It is only September, month when the nectarine’s skins wrinkle too fast. I want to remember, to really remember, what it meant to be right here.
September 15, 2015