possible

i think i want to write because my windows are open and the presence of recent rain is encouraging. it even rains in the desert, in the summer; so: many things are possible. 

the thought calms. 

i've never liked failing, so i don't spend much time with possible. i prefer probable, i adore definite, i crave absolute, and as a result, i've become a career coward. we all have risk meters sewn into our hearts--sometimes they're called comfort zones--and though i have no idea how they are calibrated so differently for each of us, i understand perfectly when i've gone too far. possible is outside my comfort zone. i like calculated stretches. 

and yet. i've lately chosen my way to the edge of the cliff, hoping to force a leap or a fall, or most likely, a leap that feels convincingly like a fall right up to the last minute. it's possible.

sunday witness

he was blind; she was barefoot. he was walking up the street; she was walking down.

i've seen him before, swiping his white stick side across our sidewalk-less street. i've never seen her before. he's never seen me.

i've seen him walking at night, and perhaps that terrifies her because night is a season of others not-seeing. but what is night to him? 

i didn't see them meet and neither did he. his exclamations and laughter pulled my head up from my book and when i looked, i saw his face bury in her neck and his body take a deep, happy inhale. he knew that neck; he knew that smell.

they kissed like he could see her face. he collapsed his stick and took her hand and they walked up the street together.

(i didn't try to write like natalia ginzburg (because i can't), but on reflection, it occurred to me that i sound like i'm imitating one of her essays: "he and i." i'm okay with that, since it might get you to read one of my favorite essays of all time.)