Delicate blonde fibers adhere to the flower stem, imperceptible dances. Fluctuating, like fingers stumbling across piano keys. Stumbling like marbles, careless over the matrix of patterns to a rug, each clink accompanied their every roll. To the scatter, the freedom, the tossed freedom. To infinity, to every reaction’s opposite equal reaction. To matter, to mass, to be infinite. Multiplying bubbles within an encapsulated place, pushing against the boundaries without bursting; without popping; hugging and fighting for room to exist. No principle. Dictated tear. Theory of everything.

This, and that, this, like stars sitting between expanses of distances, tiny, like needle pricks in the fabric of space. This, how one could feel how zigzags look, or the sound of white noise - a blend of frequencies in a brief burst, a changed radio station. A song, a hum resonating throughout the interior of a car. The buzz of a zipper sliding up along a sleeping bag or the gentle patter of water droplets flung from sprinklers against exposed faces, squinting eyelids, caught in a pool behind smile stretched mouths. Like shivers cascading sweat lined skin, ice in the breath of air conditioning; goosebumps.

The molecular level. A grain of sand trickled between toes; evoke, tactile sensation. Blades of grass itching through blankets, piercing through wool socks. Irritant, feeling; beautiful, feeling. The center of all things. Epicenter. The great expansion, the boom, the lightning caught in a bottle- let loose after a cork erupts- a firework’s great climb into climax. Overflowing, the great climb; carbonation rising to the surface, root beer float, a cold coke. There’s texture in taste, there’s texture in perception. The ridges and bumps on a thin, flimsy napkin pulled from a diner dispenser—metal container—ripped—thin—forest—fire.

It’s an encounter. This, a confrontation from a mosquito, an electric pulse, surge, shock, act, chain response from light, to eye, to brain. To tiled rooftops, to a ballpoint pen’s inconsistent flow of ink on a birthday card. Of how one could feel the warps and molds of a street lamp, of endless power lines, of no power, of the door swung open on a hot summer night, of the croaks of frogs, the bark of dogs, the buzz of motorcycles. This, how one could feel like sugar, stuck on hands, dipped fingers of guilty children. Laughter, tentative existence, novice, ancient: laugh, laughing, laughed, laughter, after, afterwards, sunrise, sunset, far away, here. This, how one could feel. How one could feel. Stringed instruments, little things, the sound, singing, laughing. The birds, no gravity; the clouds, no gravity. How the word ‘harness’ hisses on the tongue. It came from; where. Strange. Short. Over. Cradle’s bedsheets. Crawl of a bug. Creation of just a hiss of the tongue. ‘Nearness’ ‘austereness’ ‘delirious’ ‘awareness’ .......... _ . _ .
................... ..... ............. . _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ . . . . . . . _ _ _ _ . . . _ _ ... .... _ _ _ _ . . _ _ .
. . . _ . _ _ _ .......... _ . _ . .... ... .... . . _ . . . . . . _ . . _ _ . _ . . . . _ . . . . . . _ . ... .... ._________

Her arm . . . Her arm was asleep, nudged firmly between her body and the cushion of wherever she had found herself. The stillness in her bones wore deep and poised themselves upon the comfort of sleep, despite the awkward angle of her craned neck and lack of blood flow to her arm. Contentment lined her features, contentment permeated her being; sleep, her reward for a long day. Grace, in the most childish form it could be. She radiated innocence, the
kind of innocence in nature, of just being. Evidence lie in her warm chest, her limp hands, and cheek imprinted by the seam of the pillow.

Her existence, folded by a craned neck and heeded by a heavy arm, was all to be accounted for. She did and she was. She continued and monitored the sensation of breathing,

of the process of in and out, a familiar rhythm. And then she shivered. The quiver tingling along her skin, prickled and glided down her back. The draft from an open window somewhere or a newly opened door, she supposed. But just as quickly, the chill dissipated, replaced by smooth warmth, a balance, an internal process of regulating body temperature to that of her surroundings. The warmth curled around her, wrapping its length across her. Lifted, like an anchor from sea, out and away.

In that moment, she felt that familiar presence. That familiar rhythm. It grew more present and grew to become, just to become. As she became held by this father; father told through the sense of his manor. It was his arms that were lifting her. She felt him as if his presence had weight, and it blanketed her, that familiar rhythm. A sigh escaped him but carried two voices; one she recognized and one ancient to her, it sounded like her but also like everything she’d ever touched, everything she’d ever tasted, everything, she, ever.
And it was familial. It was fitting. Fitting, to a mother’s womb. She drifted. Her body was lethargic, drowsed. Fumes, runners high, exhaustion, the drug which brought forth this dormant state and replaced all else with a sort of peace. It was kind, a kind peace, the hypnosis of sleep continued to lure her. She was held against his company, against her creation, his relaxing grip upon her arms left no indentations- she had just fit perfectly into his mold, she was his child, she was her daughter.

Her head wanted to fall back, she let it, not jerking back as she completely gave in to this genre of area that lay just beyond ordinary limits; it was ethereal, a region of an intermediate median, an undefined middle. It was a zone of exits, a corridor of release. The space beyond departure, but before passing. A limbo, a suspension in mid-air, a narcotic, a physical dream. She surrendered, she released, and in the next second she was laid down onto her bed, onto these sheets, the ones that smelled like lavender, fine fabric adhere to her body.

She was tucked tightly into the bed, smiling inwardly as her father tried his best to make her comfortable. And then she was. And her forehead was kissed and her bangs were brushed away from her eyes. And he began to leave her, no pattern of step. She wished him back, but knowing him, he was busy.

Towards this embrace, towards this material of comfort and security, she felt. Emanating from the blankets, seeping into her skin, a gentle caress, the loving partner that sleep can be. Weightless. Right. The warmth continued to envelope, every muscle was loose and her mind let itself ease. Time seems to stand still, yet she remained present in this harmony, an effortless state, fluid almost.

And there, a fan’s blades spun in the corner, noise to fill in the empty spaces between seconds. It hung onto the midnight air and began to turn and twist to braid it. Company, as was the ticking to a clock on her nightstand. As was.

“It’s this damn couch.” Dad.
“Sure, honey.” Mom.
“No, ‘cause if there weren’t so many pillows I wouldn’t lose the remote so often.”
“It’s right here.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Right where you left it.”
The TV turned on, the channels flipping, on, to the next, on, and on again, to the next. “What’s this?” Dad.

“It’s cute.” Mom.

“No, it’s too sad.” A soundtrack to a film was all she could make out, she didn’t know which one they were watching. A melody of piano keys. The more she listened to it, the more it began to mold and the longer the night went on the quicker time seemed to pass. Soon the TV was off and the soundtrack converted into a note, a note, a note, debated, contemplated, piano keys, a rhythm of beginnings.

“Like it?” Sister.
“No.” Brother.
Smack, “C’mon.” Smile, “I love it.” Mom.
She opened one eye to look around the expanse of her room. The door to her room had

been left open just a crack, and a warm, honey and amber tone reached through it and spread across the hardwood floor and up the wall- a sliver in her room of shrouded shadows, of night at its peak.

She could hear the music, her parents’ voices carry, the distance distorted them somewhat, it made them less clear, more muffled, but she could make out every word. This, a heightened sense, distance.

“Did you call the office?” And she loved their voices, symphonies, distinct. “No, you look fine, keep it on.” The timbre and tone of her mother, soft and yet sharp- her father, deep and yet calm. “Be back before the street lamps are on, okay?” The range of voices, some stay longer than others, some closer to her. “I hope he’ll call again.” It was no task hearing them, she remained heavily solid, liquid, absorbent. “Do you know what he wants for his birthday?” She blinked and stared out at the light, the voices still incoming. “Go to bed soon.” She smiled outwardly this time. “Do you have any batteries- my toothbrush won’t work.” Her family, each personality had such funny, similar inflections and patterns of speech, reflecting their closeness and connection, their shared bond, their glue. “How are you?”

She listened to their jokes, their memories, their playful banter, all of which contribute to the sense of togetherness that is a hallmark of family life, all of the details of which she could hear, the conflict, the joy, the disagreement, the passion, the heated tone still caring and concerned, rhythm, song, united, laughter, simple. “Do you have everything packed?” No grandness at all. “I’m too tired.” Yet, the most spectacular performance, life. “I wish she could see how handsome you’ve become.” She wanted to get up and converse with them, but she knew she had to be patient, soon they’d all talk again come morning, come time. “I love you.”

And then there was no sound, no movement. They must have gone to bed too, she figured. And so she let her eyes close and she stared at the expanse behind her eyelids, the dark, the place where her consciousness found boredom in its expanse while the body gratefully took a break from stimulation. She continued to lay there, in that place.

The door creaked open again, the light flooding into the room but not too much as to
disturb her and another weight settled next to her. She turned and threw her arm over the second being and lay still once more as the door closed.

“Mama.” Her son whispered. She opened her eyes again. “Look.”

The air was crisp, but the wind died down once the sun had gone passed the horizon. She rocked herself back and forth on the rocking chair, its blue paint chipped from exposure to the outside elements, of rain, of sun. She rested her head back against the wood, her son and she stared up at the eastern sky. “It’s so clear.” There, the stars were, closer this time, tangible. The warm, honey and amber tone of light was seeping out from the windows to the house behind them. In the mix of crickets and dusk’s cloak of purple, was the velvet pink painted on her mother’s cheeks, the ivory buttons down her father’s shirt; their voices, delicate- this- molecular- encounter- they blended with those of her brother, cutting fresh vegetables, and his wife, boiling noodles, her perfume, a radiating fragrance.

“It smells good.” Her son said, “But I doubt he can cook like you.” Glass cups were placed on the table, placemats set. Wafts of seasonings, of life, of pleasure painted the vicinity, the juice of the tomato streaked on the cutting board, the rip of pastel pink in the sky. Croak, bark, buzz. The little bugs, the hills, the life she carries, she talks to them with a glance, with a sigh, a conversation of movement, conversation about life, about life. Community in and community out. Of life. And they all laugh, in and out, here and there. Life of.

“I’ll cook for them again.”

“You should. We should put up the fairy lights out here, too.” They sigh into the chair, deeper. The start up, the hiccup hiss, the sprinkler rises and spins in the garden. The freckles of water dot the porch. A pleasant night. One, like the many that are not yet over, like the many not yet experienced. One, like the many who love, who they have loved, who have not yet had all the love they have to offer. One, to love anew. One, to love all over again. The sun sets but day is not over.

“Yes. Yes, that would be nice.” And then, the back door opened and the light pooled onto the porch.