This little handcar life

Someone will die today, more than one, and our little boy rouses me when light hasn’t bleached the horizon and the treetops sit quietly huddling with birds afraid still to speak. We lie on the floor with his cars and I fight with sleep which still has me like a snake part swallowed part awake while dreams themselves afraid of death cling feverishly. I am not comforted by talk of cycles, of how the earth will receive me with its dust and I will be thrust up through flowers as petals or sucked through roots of trees for their leaves. Don’t give me genes, nor memory which flickers like a candle flame then fades, take God away and gods who are lost in pantheons century upon century of faith cannot locate and take mysticism and open gates that wait at one remove accessible to none but a deluded, chosen few. Our little boy is a bad sleeper and frequently wakes us in the shadowed night or early morning crisp with life and we nudge each other murmuring you go it’s your turn no you go and one of us will roll from bed and wrestle him down or give in and live moments we would otherwise have missed. Last night, I went to bed dismayed that le néant is all pervasive and nothing can follow after but this early morning saw me croyant once again in this little handcar life ticking on its tracks to wherever, whatever — I am alive on this day where some are dead, many more before and to follow, and me, but this day with its deft horizon drawn so magically is something to believe in and there is my son pushing a chipped red Lamborghini across the carpet, incontrovertible, bold as a brass trumpet.


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