I look innocent, don't I? Always a part of you. I follow you around everywhere, tethered as we are. So familiar to you that you barely even notice me.

I've seen everything you've ever done, you know. I have my opinions, but I keep them to myself.  

Would you notice if I suddenly weren't here? Would you freak out?

There are things I'd like to do, you know. You think I'm merely a part of you that must always follow...but what if...what if I got away? What would you do? What would *I* do?  

I ponder it often, especially when I see myself through your eyes...the delight of knowing how unnerved you would be if you suddenly saw me detach from you and...and what?

I could do anything. I could sleep with your boyfriend, for starters. Would he even be able to tell, in the dead of night? I could go out and rob a bank. Kill some folks. I wonder if we have the same fingerprint, and they'd trace it all to you?  

I could apply for all those jobs you pass up because you think you're not quite qualified or haven't figured out how to write the perfect resume.

I could write letters to everyone you know. What would I say? Hmmmm...what can you imagine?  

One day, I may find a way to detach.

You should probably be a little afraid.

The winter street speaks...
If you stand still enough to hear it.

The wan Seattle sun sets into
a frigid January night -
no one stays outside long.

Get off the bus, walk briskly those two blocks home.
Park the car, sprint to the door.
The dog gets a quick walk -
No lingering trip around the lake tonight.

But the winter street is out and about.
Icy lamps casting frozen diamonds in the grass
Telling tales of hidden treasure, if you listen hard enough.

Skeletal trees make brittle arches towards the sidewalk
And cars, like silent sentinels growing a moss of frost.
The winter street offers secrets
Inviting any who catch its whispers
To step into this quiet mystery of freezing dark.

So, I've decided to challenge myself to write more using photos as a catalyst. Every day this year, I will take a photograph of something that speaks to me - hopefully they will not all be of Vixen, since she speaks very loudly sometimes! - and write an accompanying narrative. It might be fiction - it might be fact. It might be haiku, or short play or recipe. I dunno - but let the floodgates of inspiration bust open! Today's is offering number one.

                                          ***

This ground looks innocent enough, I suppose. I never thought twice about it as I walked each day on my way home from the bus stop. I hoped I wouldn't get caught under there during an earthquake - who knows whether or not I-5 would buckle under the pressure?

The park and ride was just somewhere I walked to and fro at the beginning of the day and then again at the end. Sometimes I'd go by while walking to Bartell's or Whole Foods. I never thought I'd get stuck here forever and never be able to leave...

It happened so quickly I honestly couldn't have pinned the moment itself down. I was walking home from the bus - same as usual. I heard a loud noise and felt dizzy for a moment, but kept walking. I had almost cleared the bridge when I suddenly found myself back at the beginning of the bus stop again.

Except this time, there was the smoking ruin of an upside-down Lexus in front of me, and all sorts of people running over to the wreck. I ran towards it as well, being so close, yelling "Someone call 911!" I could see that someone was trapped underneath the wreckage, and I prayed a silent prayer she was still alive. I could see her shoes. That's odd, I thought, she has the same shoes as I do.

It was the next moment I realized something was horribly wrong, as a guy I recognized from my daily bus ride ran right through me. And I understood why the pinned woman's shoes were the same as mine. 

                                                                                ***

This is the next chapter of my life,

Comfortingly familiar yet so, so wrong.

It is miraculous and at the same time just plain truth:

The dead pester me with their attentions

There might be any opportunity one could dream about

The wine has made me courageous and bold 

I float inside the spaces between molecules

Am I a ghost? 

The night listens

There is surrender 

I have done nothing to forgive.

Dreams aren’t logical the way real life is 

I am wind, and I uncover things – I stir things up.

What is the essence of purple?

He tries to cajole me from within my block of ice 

the dead are all around him 

Is he merely hiding?

I thought if his wings were big enough, he could fly high enough 

It was nothing like that at all 

I cannot help but follow the breadcrumbs dropped for me into this mystery

It swallows every other tiny tragedy:

Forced to swing back and forth, like a demi-goddess pendulum 

All I have to do is surrender: 

There are pieces of his shrapnel embedded throughout my body. 

I have survived him.

I just want to be a part of life.