Well Water

Yeah, thirty minutes.  No big deal.  I have this well in hand.

I’d paint a picture of my quiet surround at the moment if there were more light than that of the computer screen to see by.  Instead, I say, I am thinking of you.   You who crept so briefly out of the cadre of shadows I keep in something like a locket, something like a cage, something like a Grant’s Tomb far below the sepulchre of the sea.   You’re one of many, a cut  remembered somehow without the pain of the cutting.   I might have nearly almost loved the part of you that you gave me once, mainly because you might have nearly almost loved what I deigned to give you.  Your support was priceless, then.  The absence of it had to be filled by other things, and yet, no other things quite did the trick.  Mr. Rochester might never have happened in the way that he did without you softly, kindly greasing the trap with your entrails.   Not that I broke your heart, you were in a state and I, gathered the gauzy petticoats and hovered just above the fray, offering the beatific guidance that an Athena might offer, without a touch of innuendo.  In me, perhaps, you felt there was some grace.  Some grace that would prevent me from being hurt by the news that you were in real love with someone else.  Someone whose hair you could touch and who happened to also be a vegetarian and whose flaws you shared with me in such a way that I was caught so, so, so off-guard by the realization that my virtual epiphanies in your life could be trumped by a body, by a name.  It hadn’t been in me, then, that grace you bet on.   I wasn’t able to watch once again as I gave feminine voice to your conscience and became the Blue Fairy, unnamed angel, the palm reader marking the love lines on your hand while my palm lay as flat and white as a marble slab, a field of new snow.    I disappeared, as I often do, into the mists and the jungle of tubes.

Only now, you’ve said hello.  You’ve been married to the girl you weren’t sure of once and had a child in the interim.   You only mean hello.  Except, for you, who sees numbers before words, you also see that I might write you back and resume my role.   My floating presence.  Part of me would like to, but now, I don’t want to give you my sadness.  And the happiness I have is too precious right now.  That’s how it feels.  Perhaps if I could just be free and take back up the mantle of friendship I wish I could that happiness would grow.

I don’t know.  It’s been a big universe in our time apart.  Bigger in weirdly different ways.  I want to be open to it.  I want to take that step, but something in me clamps down and says you’ll make a fool out of me again.