Witness

Aliveness is not conceptual, Corina says, and that horizon, no matter where you are is always ahead.  Your mama who was always “getting there,” no there she could ever get you’re thinking, and you’re thinking, I hurt here and I hurt here and here and here.  Outside, a few bird chirps, rhododendron in gaudy fuchsia bloom, two fat bees hovering and there, the spindly volunteer—a low cluster of oiled leaves last spring—has become its own shrub, has put out buds that are just starting to stretch like the cat waking from a nap in a sunspot and these will flower in another morning or two.  Aliveness, Corina says, it’s embodied, your breath catching this morning, your mother long gone and your grandchildren—you can’t save them and you can’t let go trying, their futures unfurling in whatever weather like small fists of fiddlehead ferns nestled at the feet of lichen covered oaks you pass on your walk, and you can only try not to step on them as they grow no matter the weather, though the Jehovah’s Witness who stands at the door believes she can sell you answers, offers a brochure, redemption, the sky behind her stolid figure such a clean flat blue it hurts.