skonen_blades

There’s power in these large hands. I press them out palms forward to the surface of the world. I lean against the tangled skein like I’m pushing against the sack of my womb. I feel like Donnie Darko. I feel like Neo. There’s a feeling like plastic wrap giving beneath my fingers and then I punch through. There’s a rush of vacuum that stops with a pop and I stagger back.
There’s a tear in the air in front of me. An impossible tear like a rip in a piece of paper hanging in three dimensional space. Like one of the square windows in Time Bandits but with ragged edges. I walk around the back of it and it can’t be seen. I come back around the front of it. I almost expect it to blink or something. I look at my nails and back up at the tear. The world continues around me and the rip appears benign. I have a childish guilt in me like I’ve just defaced a poster but I know I’ve done much more than that. This is a beginning.

I can hear the lofty syllables you used to use to deflect affection echoing still in my kitchen where you used to be. You’re there and the sway of the small of your back gives me a tremor. You were strong. You used to be professional swimmer. The cinnamon dusting of freckles across your back flexes with your muscles as you chop the carrots and try to teach me the finer point of Kant’s philosophy. You aren’t looking at me and I’m not listening. I just let the waves of your voice wash around me and through me and enjoy the moment, paying extra special attention to remembering this moment, to capturing how it feels. Shuttering to think.

I play it back now. It has a dustier taste than it should.


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