That ache in my back and in my arms.
When I see my three kids there is always that dull ache that I'm a part of their confusion and pain. That the attachments they will have to this world, the curses of their father, are partially wrapped up in me.
There is this bittersweet moment when I see them and all that love that is in their smiles and know that while I'm doing my best, sometimes I'm not the best.
And the ache is even deeper when they are going home. Because as much as I want them to be here. This is a place that they can only visit. This isn't their home. That makes me ache more than I could have ever imagined.
And there is this ache when she walks out the door. And I know that I won't see her for a while. Probably a long while. And that the comforts of home are foreign to me still. That I come home to quiet and alone. To music and wandering of city streets.
But there was this deeper ache.
This ache that would overwhelm me every time I would come down I25 into the city, and see that skyline. An ache that I have had since I was a child. An ache to live in the city, and know that life is lived on foot. That we move and breathe and pray with the waking sun against the sky scrapers.
And when I'm gone from this place I ache for it like I ache for her.
Or like I ache for them.
My psalms are written in the shadows of buildings. My humble incense to God's nostrils in the cigarettes that I partake in. The Eucharist has become a tavern and the congregation anyone that will join me for a round. There is no place that could be a more worthy temple to the God that looks down on me and wonders at what He has created.
I've tried to explain it to my father but he didn't understand. I don't talk to my mother. My children seem to know. And my friends see me thrive. And she is always in my heart encouraging me.
My worship is Zao. This city my sanctuary.
There is no other way to make that understood.
I light another, and pour another, and whisper another.
And while the smoke curls around her face somewhere I ache.
In a way like I never have.
In a good way.
File under Virtue.
4 comments:
When I read this, I saw a woman in a old faded film (smoking obviously)- eyeing me in front of an old record player- one with a horn-looking speaker. The sound from it was clear, but it popped and cracked here and there. She wore a pear necklace, and as she lowered her chin, one of her curls dropped to dangle in front of her eye.
Thanks.
Yeah I would like to buy that woman a drink. Just saying.
someday i think i will have a plce in a city too. it will have to be an extra place. or an expensive place because of the yard requirement. and then i will have some misgivings about excess. but i push through those now don't i? i love what aches you and i know you love too.
Someday I hope we are getting together just down the street from here for coffee every afternoon.
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