2021 riverrun Final PDF

Behind a waterfall, in a cave. It was summer in Yosemite. I always loved
that place, God did well in that place. I met a girl on a hiking trail. We were both
alone, and last I saw she’s got a husband now. March heat had worn away the icebox
on the mountain so the rivers were flowing and the waters were falling. She stood in
the spray, eyes closed, arms out. She was waiting for something to peel off I think,
maybe she was waiting for the water to wash away the starch in her blouse. Nothing
else explains why she would talk to some man with a look like he’s not on his own
side about how the hillsides look like calligraphy. She was right, she’s still right. God
did well in that place. We walked for so long, I could have talked with her and
walked with her until my feet bled, it was like everything else fell away like we had
gone to the Threshold. She looked sad. She looked lonely and confused. She was like
the ink on the mountains like she was scared to wash away the porcelain and paint
on that perfect mask she had because she thought she would be the same person
underneath. We reached the waterfall I’d heard about. I pulled her through the curtain.
I thought that in that place, where the world isn’t, where it’s simple and silent
and the world floats away like duck feathers; maybe I’d be able to find my angel’s
kiss, and maybe she would stop looking like she was waiting for the world to end. I
was right, she stopped waiting. She gave a ginger touch, a simple wail, hollow like
the cave, then she was quiet, she cried and lay there by me. Then she walked back
into the curtain and I never saw her again. I don’t know why I expected to feel warm
in a place that’s soaked in water that never gets sun.
I was quite minded at that point. So I swigged my scotch and tossed my cigarette
in a fresh glass so Jeb would kick me out. He kicked me out, with this sad,
slimy, silent look on his face.
I had a home a long time ago. The Threshold showed it to me again. I had
marbles, a plank of wood that I’d shaved holes in with a quarter. Open holes and
rolling marbles, they would slip into the plank one by one. I was so simple then, so
singular then. I was so easy to fill then. All I needed was my marbles and simple
wooden plank. Dad was never there even in the Threshold. Like some type of empty
space, no light, no warmth, no happy days playing catch and whistling at fancy cars,
or magic shows, or baseball games. His name was Tom. If the tattoo on Momma’s
calf meant anything, “Sussy X Tom” with a big fake heart for a background. I wasn’t
always happy with my plank. Before I said “screw ‘im” and settled for my plank and
a playboy, I wanted all the normal boy things, playing with the stupid ball, being
shown how to take care of the dog, leaden looks when I strike out in baseball.
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