I am looking at my life—cluster of stones sodden with rain on a lonely beach around the bend of Oregon. Waves shudder and heave their way to shore. Fog, milky and metallic, gray sky licking the lens of water. Deserted, save the hum of heart between the rocks.
I am looking at my hands—five fingers stretched from the meat of this part, dusted with sun, bones seen under the thin layer of skin. Nails pale and flesh-tinted, ripped short, never manicured or graceful. Lines crisscross my palm, trail of life I never allow myself to read. These hands hold memories. Hold truth and terror.
I am looking at my home—big bright ball of being plucked from my core. Color it happy, yellow-danced hue. Buttercream paint framed by white edging, chipping under the slant of roof, across shutters folding to my parents’ bedroom. All around, signs of decay, of age and lines upon the old house’s face. But also blooms joy, spring of step, echoes of voices melting together, where laughter yellowed our walls at night, year after golden year.
I am looking at my journey—broken and haphazard, comforted in the cocoon of childhood, ripped open by raw fed adult life, dashed dreams, topsy-turvy detachment, bewildered eyes lunging at heartbreak coming out of hope.
Who are we, these spirits wrapped in flesh?