In February, I found smudges of ink on my chin and nose and cheek—the shadow of the self who escapes out of the cave and loses track of time, as the days stretch with milliseconds of more light.
I walked down Aisle 6, and it was the charcoal mark on the man’s forehead who stood near the tin-fish that caught me, as if a clock’s invisible hand pulled my hair taut.
San Francisco was bitterly cold against old buildings and a relief in the sun. Now what could I give up that would bring me closer to whole? What could I write as a document of my faith? “You deserve self mercy,” my sister told me once, only for me to return those words when she was in need, like adjusting the loop of a necklace.
It’s still winter as the sun loves every green clover. It’s still winter when the rain hits warm pavement. It’s still winter in the refrain of forgiveness, in waiting for the bus, as the evening releases sweet petrichor.
This is beautiful Christine.