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Do it. The last words she spoke before we cinched the green ribbon around her neck, a stark line bisecting her head from her body, a scrap we’d buried to gather magic under the mother tree. We tied the final knot. She took up her sword, a girl become death, the edge of her blade fine enough to cleave three dimensions into one.
We were in the mines when the world was falling apart. I remember, the earth was cracking, and the plants were going limp, and the world looked dark blue, less full of life. Everyone tried to group together—Nan, Chim, even old Robert who mostly kept to himself—but it didn’t do much.
The great writer had lived well past his appointed lifespan, not by years but decades, and now existed less as an ongoing contributor to the literate zeitgeist but as an icon of a past age. He was a super-centenarian, just topping an unbelievable 110 and still appearing at literary conferences.
Mother used to say I am a child of the river. I never understood her. I thought I would be a child of the wind, like her. Like all the children of the wind, my mother could fly. When I was younger, I liked spying on her.
“What do you mean, ‘no?’” I said. “We have a deal. I kept my end, now you have to keep yours.” She showed me the face of a willful child. “I’m not doing it.” Then she turned her back and summoned the royal guards.
We drove out to Joshua Tree for the star party—a gathering of amateur astronomers under a clear, dark sky. It was Holly’s idea, an impromptu adventure on a Friday after work: “Hey, Lou, do you want to go look at the moon tonight?”
At first, it was the not-quite-hidden things. Worms suspended from sticky silk, tree-trapping the unwary. Glassine jointed lines, half-helical, hardly seen vitreous shadows. Diamonds caught in fallen leaves.
Here’s a list of items/materials you need for this journey. Please note that these items vary from the purpose of your meeting. Below is a breakdown. — If you have suffered hurt from a miscreant, plunderer, been swindled in trade, or assaulted in any manner, this section is for you. Buy either a three-month-old native brown broiler or a seven-year-old he-goat.
So, this is awkward. We aren’t at the stage in our relationship where I’d feel comfortable revising your life-poem on the fly. Even as a backup plan . . . yet here we are. I’m sorry. I know I should have said that to you before the anesthesiologist put you under and the surgeon opened up your skull. But now the surgeon is staring at the quivering quill in my hand.
Nate doesn’t often receive wedding invitations. This year, he gets seven. To be fair, the first one is work, so he doesn’t even get to pick his outfit. But an olive-scented breeze squirrels joyfully through his hair; waiters bring out little triangles of flatbread.
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