I am no Rhodes scholar, but I have an ear for doublespeak. Here’s what I want to say to the other side, to the Righteous Left, to the Easily Injured and Offended: You say you want concessions/changes/social justice, but let’s admit it, you are never going to quit. Not until your moral victory is complete.
Because that’s who you are.
I would just like to hear you say it.
That part of you understands public burnings.
Convert, or die.
* * *
—
Someone is coming up the stairs. In my closet, I brace myself. People keep coming to the front door, leaving things for me, trying to inquire. I’ve had to surrender my privacy. Which is not as hard as I thought. It makes me feel better to relinquish what I don’t need. Go ahead, I think, stare at me, ask me anything, take photos of my house, just don’t come inside my closet.
An old lady enters the bedroom. She’s wearing a stiff T-shirt and cardigan and house slippers that she brought with her, on the off-chance that I’m a fastidious housekeeper. She sits on the bed and sighs. Our eyes meet through the crack between the bifold doors.
Hey, hon, she says.
Hi, Mom.
It’s almost time for Sybil’s bus, she reminds me.
You’ll walk up and get her, right?
Sure, sure, she says, looking uncomfortable. It’s just…you might want to come on out of that closet before she gets home. It’s just a little unusual. For a child to see, that is. If you ask me, it’s a perfectly reasonable thing for you to do. But for her…
You’re right, I say. I agree, I should come out.
But I don’t move.
After a moment or two, my mother says, Would you like me to leave you alone, Juliet, or—
It’s fine, I say. In fact, stay a minute. I’d appreciate it. Thank you.
This surprises me, that I want her near. She’s been living with me and the kids for a full month, since our return. She came the moment I called. But there is a palpable awkwardness while we try out this new intimacy.
Don’t let anybody tell you how you should feel, my mother says, after a pause. When your daddy left, it felt like a death. I did not want to feel better. And that was my right.
Another favorite line of poetry comes to me.
there are so many little dyings that it doesn’t matter which of them is death
January 27. LOG OF YACHT ‘JULIET.’ From Cayos Limones. Toward Naguargandup Cays. 09° 32.7?N 078° 54.0?W. NE wind 10–20 knots. Seas 2–4 feet. NOTES AND REMARKS: Crew has been busy this morning! During engine check the First Mate burnt her finger checking engine oil. Another small setback when Bosun spilled her Rice Krispies into the bilge.
Today we head deeper into San Blas. Our destination is an island called Corgidup. Why Corgidup? Because Corgidup means “Pelican Island” in Guna and Sybil loves pelicans. The first amendment to the CONSTITUTION OF THE YACHT ‘JULIET,’ which is written in invisible ink on the back of the Parcheesi board, says, “All crew haveth the right to make spontaneous changes to itinerary at random.” You want to play coconut football in your underpants? You want to sit & watch ants carry tiny fractions of a leaf across a log? Well then, while aboard ‘Juliet,’ it is decreed you must do those things.
Going to be brisk out there today. Everybody is tethered and in vests. In a minute, we will make the next leg of our incredible journey. We will head her into the wind & hoist the mainsail. Then we will feel that ancient pull.
Like plugging into the cosmos.
* * *
—
The little dyings are so much harder. The interstices.
Look at me. Even though I’m safe, back in my comfortable home, I’m still acting like a refugee—scavenging, foraging, guarding my small space, waiting out the end of the war.