The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
...
[+]
The day I get my diagnosis,
I do not tell anyone. I drive
and drive down 16 Mile,
paralleling the Freedom Trail.
My thoughts and time do not
touch. It is November. I lean into
the throat of winter as the evening
presses itself silently together.
Only tomorrow will I remember my
knuckles, white against the leather
wheel. Joints sharpening against
squares of orange light, falling.
On the way home, I think of highway
signs. The way they always tell us
where to go, how far, how fast.
There is comfort in the unflinching.
I do not tell anyone. I drive
and drive down 16 Mile,
paralleling the Freedom Trail.
My thoughts and time do not
touch. It is November. I lean into
the throat of winter as the evening
presses itself silently together.
Only tomorrow will I remember my
knuckles, white against the leather
wheel. Joints sharpening against
squares of orange light, falling.
On the way home, I think of highway
signs. The way they always tell us
where to go, how far, how fast.
There is comfort in the unflinching.