Startles

My light heart conceals a squeaky toy. Dog throws heart in air. Dog digs and digs for toy. Now my light heart is half heart, half squeaky toy, scattered on a flowery carpet. I never understood carpet remnants; the carpets were always whole.

Dog refuses to walk, uses her eyes as lanterns. I’m her interpreter, but I can’t tell what she’s saying. My light heart tries her rhythm, turning back to the door, landing on the flowery remnant. Dog’s nose is all I see through the open arm rest of the couch. Termites have munched the semi-fancy sculpted wood.

Lightheartedness presumes time lasts, that before and after time don’t match, but their awkwardness hurts no one. Lighthearted is not a word you’d use for Simone Weil. 1942 was a heavyhearted year. But even she must have known a puppy, tossing bone in unclouded air. Stilled time is light.

She preferred baseball to softball, because her hand fit the baseball more snuggly. A hard ball rests lightly in the palm. We gave out baseballs at our wedding; guests threw them, and gliders too. The air was heavy with moisture, but our hearts were light as arcs of flying objects beneath the matrimonial tree. The Cajun band played “take me out to the ballgame.”

Our vows were meant to last into extra innings. This was before they put a runner on second to start the inning, back when you had to earn your way to second, at least by stealing it. Our closer holds his heart in his hand, the one he placed on his heart before the game began. Flags in center field are blowing out as the ball is thrown, only seeming to rise as it arrives at home. No one stays there long.

He didn’t mean “lighthearted,” Rachel advised me, “but congenial.” Jen had said “Susan goes into the dark, the dark, the dark,” and I almost laughed to hear her performance of the word. It’s gray outside and the trees are still. We’ve got our hurricane remnants. Cut your carpet up and fly!

 

--for Larry & Lily