Epithalamium in Tampa

Day after Halloween and I remember last year I was on the couch, couldn’t move, hungover like: oh. God. I remember the year before, hungover, and the year before that, and the year before that

at a Professor’s house in Mount Erie, Pennsylvania, lying on the couch with his dog, Luca, a terrier. The professor was away, travelling and the house needed watching. The doorbell would ring. The sound of children begging candy. Then their feet shuffling through fallen leaves, off, on their way to find a lit house in the dark night. The front door would click shut and I’d fill with shame and horror –– how far had I travelled from those innocent little ones dressed as ghosts to the present state of living dead? On TV that night was a show about black holes. The narrator was explaining how they function and to illustrate this there was a graphic, a cartoon of a kayaker paddling, unknowingly towards the event horizon – the doorbell rings – my boyfriend, the faithless man, answers – I watch the figure paddle. The dog looks at my eyes for a sign. I say: you tell me. The oar cuts a stroke. The door shuts. The phone rings. Dowstairs I can hear muffled talking. Is he talking to her? Or is it my fear talking? Shh, I tell the dog. We wait. Yes, he says. Yes, I say. It’s her, or maybe her. I am watching the figure, feeling my heart beat da-dumm, da-dumm – the doorbell – trick or treat – the nose touches the lip, goes farther, farther, ‘til the whole vessel disappears.

By definition, the voice tells us, anything swallowed by the black hole is lost


But I. I got out of that house. That relationship. That practice of drinking myself dead. And I write to you now – not from the other side – but from an airport in Tampa. I write to you with a heart full of love. And new ideas about the future.



Mary said...

Great post Abbi. I'm so happy for you. Congratulations!

Mary (Lash Christensen)

Anonymous said...

I could never post(comment) anything worthy, but, I just want to show my support!