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On non-winter nights I prefer to sleep with only one thin sheet— maybe a pillow over my eyes. I cannot sleep.
Tonight I pace. Red crystal rosary beads hang across my fingers and palm like so many
apples on my grandfather’s tree. The decades weigh my branches to the ground. I squeeze the beads tightly but for the life of me
I can’t get the feeling of dirt out of my hand, cold damp dirt. I feel grit beneath my nails; it feels like I’m a grave,
or like I’m planting a flower. It reminds me of West Virginia and digging post-holes with my father
when we built a picket fence. I pace. I see a bottle of Pepsi on my desk. I see the bottle covered
in so many beads of water. I see a puddle at its base. Throughout my life, I’ve felt each little instance of faith slide
slowly down my sides while I stand like a plastic bottle unable to reach out and grab.
Through my window I see that soon night will end. I’d better go bury these crystal beads again. |