With new eyes, I see. I see the streets once filled to the brim and teeming with timid drivers, restive with catlike reflexes, clutching the wheel like it’s their last chance for a piece of that Minnesota pie. Now, craggy and broken, the concrete upended and circuitous, stragglers with too many parcels for one man to carry, stand aimlessly, waiting under street signs for a symbol of hope to make its presence known, perhaps in the shape of a particularly precious snowflake.
As I wash the last particle of sea salt remembrance, those ghostly specks like barnacles clinging to my soul, washed away with the smell of flaked akin and sweat-stained pits, out of fits of nervousness, intermittent, I realize no one can ever truly be comfortable here. We’re dry, we’re restless, we ache for work on this last weekend left to the Thanksgiving holiday. We think about groceries and laundry and whether we should book appointments to take out IUDs in the coming year. Who knows what luck will bring.
Those five days of greed passed only too soon, no solace sought in the ocean tide of my ebbing desire. A quick sand fight has stole away bits of life from another planet, left planted in the shoes of my soul.
With our bowels made regular after the travails of travel’s disruption, the old familiar shakings find their battlements in my bones. It’s a shock to discover our languidity gone and replaced by productivity, we aim now to do things ourselves, make our own decisions, construct our young out of plywood, birch, magical staves, and ore. Our blood is thick like seeping rust, heralded by the legends of yore. Safely tucked away, back up north, reinforce the castle walls.