The Cruelest Truths

Published in Ellipsis (April 2021)

1.

The weather has been glorious

It is the Spring of Springs. For the first time in years, my rose leaves are plump and waxy—no rusty orange mold or papery brown tips. The buds, generous dollops of hot, blushing pinks, brazen reds, saucy yellows. The guava tree buzzes. Bird shadow crosses our paths everywhere. Lewd squirrels fill the sweetgum and holly oak. And the air, the rain-washed, vibrating air. Earth is celebrating.

2.

The hawks have been patient

Today, our walk at dusk, a red-tailed hawk perches on the neighbor’s fence. A spot for a sparrow, perhaps a crow. I want to tell him how I stumbled on my first horror flick as a young teen—The Birds—because I turned it on thinking it was Aristophanes’.

I want to tell him how I’ve come to dislike the incantation in vogue of late at public gatherings (back when we had public gatherings) remembering the Peoples who first lived on the land where the conference hall, park, arena, city, now sits—Miwok, Ohlone, Chumash. An easy absolution, say 3 hail remember-the-indigenous-peoples and move on.

3.

A plague does not inoculate against all else

You can still get hit by a bus. Drown. You can still get cancer. You can still wrap your arms around your children, your reckless adult children; tuck the straps of their face masks behind their ears; lure them indoors with you; and still find them overdosed in their old rooms, a breathless minute pretending they sleep, while you know, you know, they are gone.