Last Favor

Perhaps after waking to the smoke of fires burning thousands of acres of dry tinder hundreds of miles away, blotting out the sun, my mouth thirsts and my hair extends at high frizz as I reach for my appliances: hammer, chisel, gardening shears. Floor and ceiling fans stir up a roar of wind and make me dizzy. The air is angry. I grip the bookshelf. Later you’ll say, that’s not unusual.

Maybe one or the other of us shifts and I lose you for a minute. Moment to moment, much of what’s inexpressible between us gets worked out, but it also gets worked in. From out here, we can only imagine how to untangle the space inside. But we can, at least, begin with the simple notion that we are all composed of relatively pure things such as salt, air and calcium. Do me a favor, I ask, while continuing to carry the tune of a slow, deep breath. Tell me how to hold the overflow back. You shrug, and as creatures that do so much with their lips, ever watchful, you lean close to let me know I am still wearing my apron over my nightgown.