It made the telltale but somewhat unpredictable snap of a dry towel on the wind at the mercy of direction, wind speed, and obstacles. Snap, it did, to remind one of its weight and presence.
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This Geiger counter gives him away every single time. The closer to the truth we get, the faster the clicks; one lid against the other forsaking his secrets.
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The fleecy innards of my footy pajamas cling to my freshly powdered legs and feet. My fingers argue with the stubborn, unworked pop-and-lock beads which refuse to come undone. With intention, I stay after them while the television mumbles.
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I dwell within the vessel of a Warrior. My considerable gluts command attention. Along the mirrored barrier at the back of the yoga studio I cannot ignore them when I peek to adjust my stance. They hold extended poses as if it isn’t difficult while I take in and release ujjayi breath. As if. I am the heaviest I have been, as the scale measures, in my post-partum life. They are prominent and without the tone I would prefer, but they sustain me and the weight of all that I carry as I ascend the jagged, rocky bluffs along the trails each morning searching for contentment.
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They clutched the edges of that cardboard, reversible “Syr/Roch” sign that he carried to hitchhike to Rochester during his ‘sideburns’ phase. He did this often after my dad died in 1977 – to help my mom, to father us, even when he had so little time of his own working on his PhD at Syracuse University. And he wrapped them around mine when we sat on the brown and gold plaid couch in my mother’s family room watching Bad B movies together. Even Godzilla scared me then. He knew this and pretended to be scared, too.
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