One day Jane’s hair starts to fall out. Not in that “I’m shedding” way, but in a “Wow, the entirety of my scalp is noticeably less covered by hair!” way. She wanders onto the screened-in porch, and falls into deep reverie. The trees are golden, the air fragrant. She wonders if her husband has noticed. She wonders if this is the product of an undiagnosed autoimmune disorder. Maybe there are too few vegetables in her diet? A wasp is attempting to escape the upper left corner of the porch. Her legs and arms are still amply furnished. She checked. She returns to the house and begins to cook salmon fillets in a cast iron skillet.
I scrambled through the canyon for hours. Canyons are peculiar places because although they feel expansive and generous they constrict you and direct your movements towards the path before you. I followed the switchbacks towards the plateau and once there, rejoiced. In the midst of my delighting, I was nearly pitched into a shrub by wind of enormous strength. It is possible to spend hours in a canyon and not be aware that above you the wind is frantic and strong. This wind, the wind of high places, is a grand thing. It frolicked around my calves and then swung itself into my gut. I threw up my arms and embraced the wind, and then began the descent.
1: I am falling apart at four points. Joints, to be exact. The very thing of holding and togetherness. Two shoulders, two hips.
4: Blues chords can stitch my flesh into wholeness.