Crumbling

We ventured downtown to pick up a farmers market box. Stepping out of the underground car park, a river of bikes flowed down the 16th Street Mall. Old, young, black and white. No justice, no peace, no racist police. She squeezed my hand tighter, nervous at the noise. I tried to explain it. Who is Elijah McClain? The words stuck in my throat, choked with tears. Why am I crying?

The boarded up stores. Our favorite pizza place closed. Protests. A man asleep on the sidewalk, a can of beer in his hand, foaming and dribbling into the gutter. Paramedics holding a shouting man by the elbows, gently guiding him into the back of an ambulance. I sense a crumbling. 

Back to school is a zoom in the back bedroom. The mornings cool and the days shorten. Autumn comes on. A narrow silver path leads through the fearful darkness of the next few months and years. 

Jigsaw puzzles. Big complicated ones that take days and days and at times seem impossible. So much bloody blue! How will I ever fit it all together. But I do. It’s done. I took something broken and I fixed it.

I water the plants for the joy of the crunch of a fresh green bean. I snap it, wipe off the dirt and eat it stalk and all. I made that. I grew it from a seed and now it’s food. Like I once made food with my body to feed a child.

I fill bird feeders to attract finches and sparrows and chickadees (and squirrels and mice). I sit out back, really still, creatures forget I’m there and eat, fight, play, live.

I set a timer for five minutes and light a candle and close my eyes and focus on my breath. In one two three four five hold out one two three four five. Selfish and scared thoughts creep in. In one two three out one two three.

I knit complicated looking cable patterned ankle socks with tiny toothpick needles. Each stitch takes string and makes cloth. Progress spools out between the triangle of double-pointed needles. 

I struggle with plot, structure, tension - obstacles, stakes and goals. Bringing order and control to my imaginary world. Wrapping things up neatly. A happy ending.

I bake scones. Perfect puffy layers rise in the oven as tiny chunks of fat melt and collide with flour and baking powder. Fresh and hot, I slather one with the best golden butter I can find and eat it over the sink. The next one I eat on the couch, nestled between a cushion and a cat. 

These are the things that show me how to navigate the silvery path through the darkness. Small comforts. The joys of tiny pleasures. Reminders to be tender and kind.