Meditation 25

2/23/2020

I walked past all the mirrors in the hallway and nothing showed. There were moments when a flower blossomed, but its petals dissolved on the linoleum floor. I thought I saw a nose lead me from the glass, but it, too, evaporated, leaving only a wave of my imperceptible body in the still air. And then it happened again at the elevator, the mailbox, wherever someone had eyes not to see. The invisible man bathed himself in stolen light. Here light is freely given, but eyes take in what they refuse to give out. Up the street, some Filipino men empty out a house; it was where the gap-toothed Hawaiian man showed me his puikenikene tree, the one ringed by small plastic horses. Last time we crossed paths, he said he hadn’t seen us in a while; I noted the path Lilith now took to the graveyard. A hospice worker sometimes parked out front. “The house is a total mess,” the Filipino man says to me. The tree that once held a hundred plastic dinosaurs bears fruit. There was a woman in the house but I never saw her. Her wheelchair sat outside the garage, folded up. Now it's in the yard, surrounded by what can be re-used: some chairs, upholstered and not; old wooden furniture; plastic bins, one containing a garden hose; a faded red cooler.