Untitled I

there by the grace of god go i. by a blood orange sunset underneath a chiaroscuro of silver and grey and black cloud. by and by. my bald feet read the ground steadily, a path littered with dead leaves and twisted exposed roots and hard cooled dirt. there is no breeze seeing the day away and the naked limbs of contorted branches are still. not a twitch. and i come upon them, huddled by a pit of embers. god’s children. waiting and patient.

and you are here, why? - the man opposite me asks. and i tell him i am only moving forward to a place like this where i can rest a little while before going on and finding some sanctuary and some people who i can trust. i sum him up: he is a clown. grease paint and flower hatted. a wilted dangling daisy. if you want to trust, you will trust – it is that easy. – he says, as his eyes drift back to the pit and the dull light exposes his chrome painted tear. i ask him if i am welcome here and he only shrugs. it is as good a place as any, if it is company you desire – he says.

who leads you? - i inquire. is it you? and he tells me no, i simply saw him first and made the assumption; the first to speak is often only that. we don’t even ask ourselves that question, who will lead us. perhaps this is our strength, that no one asks that question. or when they do, it is only when they join the group and they quickly learn that it is an irrelevance. but here - take my seat. perhaps the next to arrive will come from the same direction as you, and you will know how it feels to answer the question. i have to relieve myself, it’s only natural you know, it is inevitable and i do not know for certain when i will return. i may not return, if i come across a better place than this. if that happens, i will likely stay there. and he stands up and dusts off the face of his trousers and turns to go.

there is little heat from the dying fire and i look at the remaining faces. a woman with raven black hair and a tattooed ankle bracelet. a small boy who is dead behind his eyes for none of this has anything to offer to him. a man perhaps old enough to be my father, not quite though, who cannot take his eyes from the woman. an elderly woman in wraps and scarves who will not stop shaking.

and i talk to the tattooed woman first because there is something hopeful about her. she is still young enough to have hope. trust is such a thing to ask for, she tells me. you cannot rely on anyone but yourself. you have to watch out for yourself, first. and i’m at a loss and i cannot argue with her on this. i say that it is at least a noble thing to look for, and she responds by pointing to the boy and pointing to the elderly woman and she asks me, when we three tell you different things and you believe you trust all three of us, what do you do then? and i tell her i don’t know. but, i say - you wanting me to not be fooled and illustrating this to me so that i will not be hurt. surely that is a step towards wanting to be trusted? and she laughs. or, it could mean i’m the least trustworthy here.

and the man who is older than me asks her why she didn’t include him in her lesson. fuck, you are needy – she tells him. isn’t it enough that i’m fucking you? and you’ll be the next to leave, just watch. this new one, i can tell, he’s flashing on me. i can feel it, a woman knows. you…the real reason, well, you might actually be trustworthy. i think that’s why i didn’t include you.

he leans back, satisfied with this. and he turns to the elderly woman, as though he has changed his affinity and having been validated by one, seeks a new validation in the other.

the old woman does not notice him and only shakes. she only shakes and keeps one eye on the boy. it is a maternal eye, though she is well beyond the point of having to worry about such things. – he has no mother, she says. the boy lights up, no longer only a stuffed toy. do too, he says. i have a mom. and she loves me. the elderly woman says that she knew his mother, and he may as well have not had one at all. she growls it, to no one in particular.

do you meddle in other people’s lives? i have to ask her this. her words are cruel, and the sympathy i had for her is vanished. i tell her these are cruel words to tell the boy. but it is true, she insists. it is better that he know now than wander through this world thinking different. you are so concerned with trust, imagine the trust this boy places in his mother who is indifferent to him. someday he will find on his own someone he can trust, and he’ll never find it if he does not understand who he cannot trust, first. she continues. i am the only one here who has seen it all; i’ve been with men who loved and fell out of love with me, i’ve been trusted and betrayed; i’ve trusted and been betrayed in turn. i’ve seen how cruel and how wonderfully people can treat one another. i’ve seen how good natured an idiot can be and i’ve seen the pettiness in the intelligent. i’ve seen how the days never stop unfolding through you, regardless whether they are bound to bring hope or bound to bring despair. i have seen it all, i have felt it all, and i believe i’ve come to know and i believe what i say.

and for why, i ask her. why is it that you believe so? how is it that you can trust your own belief? is it simply for having survived, that your trust has been reinforced? did the distance between your thoughts and your words get shorter as you aged?

i did all i did just to get through to heaven, she tells me. and I could have been this boy, this girl, this man, or you. and I would feel it so. it has nothing to do with my age, but the spirit i lived it in.

then, i realized where i was.