Lifting my head from Doty’s Heaven’s Coast, I arrive at the intersection of death and loss, and from the nothingness comes sound.
Fingers strumming in tune.
There’s a celebration somewhere.
What music shapes into form like playdough in the hands of children?
I don’t recognize the tune, but the words—the emotion and reality of that intersection—belongs to me, too. I’ve crossed that street more than once;
the second time nearly broke me.
The death of my father didn’t prepare me for the death of my aunt.
Sound pouring out—projectile, like bile giving all it has.
I choked myself silent;
hyperventilated myself to panic.
The guitar sounds: light, feathery—of joy.
It comes in the morning like mist to sun, and when night falls it echoes to stopping.
My attention turned now from these pages and toward myself. Nothing of me exists, yet I sit here atop my bed in Mexico,
Distant now, the strumming.
Mariachi and laughter drowns to fade.
Dogs barking in the distance,
and there’s a power saw somewhere in the hands of an artist, likely poor,
tapping his toe to sound.