My sister tells me to write about anything other than my own condition. My habit of writing myself into every story has been keeping me from writing at all. So, here’s anything else.
Venice frowns as she dances instead of smiling. She dances like the pain in her is coming out through her fingertips. Adrienne Lenker already has a terribly sad voice, but this arrangement of dancers moves like they are physically weighed down by it. The audience was excited throughout the first few pieces, cheering at their friends on stage. For the duration of this dance, only “Velvet Ring” and the sound of shoes on the floor exist.
Sarah has been a therapist for 20 years but still cries when she’s happy for a client. Her dad is one, too, and has the office next to hers. She thinks it’s nice to see the same last name on the two different name plates. In sessions, she advises her clients to “be like water.” She sees them cramped up, jaws tight, on the verge of tears. She sees young girls, old men, mothers, and teenage boys. They’re all different, but always afraid. She tells them to flow around obstacles like a stream flows around a log. She’s so proud when one of them tells her that, today, the burden feels lighter.
Daphne teaches yoga. She walks up and down the aisle of people stretched out on mats. After demonstrating the next pose, she tells her students that she offers “hands-on adjustments.” While they are in downward facing dog, she lets them know that touch is completely, 100 percent optional. If you want to opt out, she says, just lift your right leg. No one does. They trust her. She comes around, rubs her hands together to warm them, and presses shoulders into the floor, forcing relaxation. She lifts the head and extends the neck, releasing tension. She presses those same, warm hands together at the end of the session, thanking these students she has for 90 minutes for the gift of being with her.
The flight attendant never gets to look out of the window. She’s in charge of the drink cart and the trash bag and the seatbelts. But when she flies home to see her parents for Christmas, she gets the window seat. She keeps the window open the whole flight, not just for taxi and takeoff. Always looking out at the snow-covered lakes like puddles of spilled milk, the ground cut up like a paper snowflake. She won’t take for granted the gift of the sky.
The family in the house on Mercer Street leave their Christmas lights up until April. The other houses on the blocks leave their blinds open, too, but those walls are covered in expensive art and chandeliers drip from their high ceilings. This house is closest to the Seminary. It’s narrow where others are wide, short where others tower. Perhaps it has something they don’t have. A reason to forgo propriety for pleasure.
The couple on the sidewalk embrace, face to face, covered in dusk. They stand so close together that the falling sun leaves the shadow of just one person on the concrete.
Lila gets a text from her sister, miles away at school and feeling lost. She doesn’t know what to say except for, I love you and I miss you. What she wants to say is: I’m holding your hand in the dark. You can’t see me, but I’m there.