cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

obligation

Am I obligated to remember the squirrels? The tiny grey quivers sat in the middle of the deck and nibbled – a word seemingly created for them – and then paused, and waited.

Am I obligated to remember the honeysuckle outside my window, when every breath was pain and I was sure he would not return to me? I waited.

Deafening anger is no stranger, but the calm that has replaced it worries me. I fret; I talk to a counselor; I fret. Knowing that I have broken something that cannot be fixed … well, that is a part of life. There are many broken things behind me, and I am sure my future holds breaking in its nebulous grasp.

The cat tires of me, but I hang on to her, pet her ears in a way she both loves and despises. We embark each night into sadness, a small plastic toy bearing slow dimness into someone else’s room. I cut my fingernails so I can type faster and a story bears itself shakily onto my screen, but I wouldn’t tell it to you.

The story finishes itself with a flourish. I, the passive observer, ask it to go away. It waits.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

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