a tug boat horn pulls me out of sleep. it is still dark out, the wind blows. the trees are mostly bare as only leaf buds dot the boughs. the sound of the wind, a low whistle, as opposed to the wrestling of leaves as if it were full summer.
my thoughts drift: a brief conversation with a homeless man, a chittering sparrow, my grams's progression towards death, a woman who miscarried.
“i am hungry, do you have any spare change? i'm not lying about being homeless. let me show you what's in my bag—all i have is a blanket and a pair of socks. please, believe me.”
“thank you for talking to me. people don't like talking to homeless.”
the young sparrow, the corners of its beak maturing from a yellow colour to cream, perched atop a wooden sign post, chittered at its brethren before shitting, then flying away.
my grams, no longer able to chew food, can only eat pureed meals.
a woman who miscarried is surprised by how much grief she feels for the fetus.
the closing line of philip larkin's poem, The Mower, came to mind while the coffee steeped:
…we should be kind While there is still time.
everything in the cosmos is interconnected. our separation is bridged through compassion and kindness; to others, ourselves, and the world around us. it travels further than the pealing of a temple bell.
by the by, The Mower can be read in its entirety here
when i was very young, say three or four, my grams tied a thread around the abdomen of a live june bug. after tying the knot, she passed me a living kite.
the june bug died from exhaustion (and possibly fear, for sentience is everywhere) from not being able to escape and rest. i kept its carcass for years till it finally crumbled after being jostled in its box.
this is why i have a june bug tattoo; to always be reminded that our actions have impacts.