Road movies provide screenwriters with a built-in structure. It allows them, in the immortal words of the Queen of Hearts, to “begin at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, and then stop!” But what happens when an ending isn’t really the end? Or when the “real” end sends us down a different road altogether?
It’s the coat I notice first, several sizes too big, and blue as the sea, an ocean to drown in, and clearly not hers. It was, I guessed, his, just two months dead, and she, his wife for scarcely a year, stays afloat, barely, marooned in his clothes, in anything that keeps him close, the scent and touch of cloth to skin. But it’s the shoes that pierce my heart—gunboats, we called them when I was a child—and they do look like boats, his New Balance sneakers that carry her, heeling, over sharp breaking waves.
—All Saints Episcopal Church, Virginia Beach, April 1996
Having accepted from one palsied priest the cool, the lucent wafer, having dipped it duly in the cup, I pressed that sweet enormity fast against my tongue, where on its sudden dissolution, I received a taste of whose I was. I rose again and found my place.
As I knelt and tried to pray, I heard a little differently the words the priest intoned as he continued offering what passed for bread among high Protestants. His words: the body of Christ, repeated as he set that emblem into each pair of outstretched hands. My eyes were shut,
so each communicant returning down the aisle became something of a shadow illustration of the words. In that fraught moment, they became as well absorbed into the vast array of witnesses, whose cloud invisibly attended our sacramental blurring of the edge that keeps us separate.
The air in my barrio bulges with ash, the remains of dead poets, dried-out painters, and sick-sounding musicians. Skeletons of talento that never found breath.
I sit, estancada, in this hole, condemnation filling me. My dying ideas crinkle and shuffle but no one, not even the flea on a cat’s hairy back, wants them.
Dreams peak in my mind as dusty dirges, polvo floating down Figueroa to settle, abandoned. In a one-room apartment the homeless grow and light fires for the warmth of words I will never write and they will never hear.
Indigenous women in Bolivia are hand-weaving a small device used to seal holes in the hearts of infants. The simple, inexpensive device, called an occluder, is made of a single strand of superelastic metal. It takes several hours to fashion. Designed by a Bolivian cardiologist, the device has saved the lives of thousands of children born with this condition. The incidence of this birth defect in La Paz, Bolivia, is ten times higher than in other places due to the high altitude. The occluder is also made for export (BBC News, March 29).