I Like Pretending With You

our made up, very real life of pretend

Days are getting longer. Days are spread thin, still. The sun goes down a few minutes later each day and still I think, Another one gone? Really? Another morning now; the coffee on the stove is a good friend. The sun room is too nice to think in, let alone write in. My thoughts are pies and landscaping. Nothing. You need a darker room, Annie Dillard would say. And the sky could be a pie if you squint. The house could burn down if you leave the coffee on for too long. You could drive just north of Seattle and be landlocked by ocean, islands, mountains, and a different country. You could love it; you could try. 

The fiddle leaf fig, what a ridiculous name, marks my days. I marked its death a while ago: Caspar, Wyoming. It is not dead anymore. There are 21 new leaves. Some are bigger than others, as it goes. It certainly likes it here, it did the unthinkable. Some day I don’t know where I am so I have to look it up on the map. I like what I see; bodies of water feel best to the left. I tell everyone I grew up on the great lakes, the bay is comforting here, somewhat a truth, somewhat a way to make me stay, to trick everyone into believing I’ve always been here. I have always been here. Ignore the plants if you come in, they say otherwise. 

I’m in the sun room. It doesn’t matter much anyway, if it is dark or light. It is March—it rains. There are little bits of blue and orange if you look around. I look around and there are still sentences. You can’t tell everyone to write in a dark room and then live off the coast of anywhere. You will close your eyes and see colors. There is no point, maybe that is it. And we go off to study the day, still. We go to work and school and we come home and ache. What was this ever about? Pour me some coffee. 

Let me tell you, I don’t understand a thing. You shouldn’t read these things if you want to understand more. I cannot tell you a bit about mycology or amphibians or how to write in cursive. All I know is that there is a point to some things. Fishing has merit, you wait and then eat. Give the dog some food. Put on your boots. Pretend it all matters for nothing. I like pretending with you. Say that to those you love. That has a dazzling point, as giant as the great lakes and as small as the ocean. The ocean is not small. You’re right, I cannot understand it. I cannot measure that cliff. 

It is a pie now, out my window. I’m still writing. I like pretending with you. The school bell rings. The seagull soars. At night, when everything is gone, I think about dying, its certainty. Death is my god. The trees will come down, the birds will pick off flesh on the road, the roof has to cave. It cannot sit forever.

It is easier to sort my days like this. I don’t understand a thing, yet we are here and pick up what we want to hold. We’re mind-fucked, Jack and I say to each other. And then we go on our merry way and try to name the birds when they call. What is up there? What is down below? Oh god, I cannot measure anything.

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