10-Line Tuesday

December 10, 2013

from what she can

for S.

 

A cocktail umbrella skewered into a square of cream cheese. A neck scarf worn, instead,
around the waist. A pink ukulele stowed into the overhead bin. A birthday string
of paper lanterns. The way she quakes into a hug, turning it electric. When she said
we were her favorite couple. The number of times in a week she chooses orange, and the thing
about a fear of swimming that makes her love the ocean more. How heavy the fog could weigh,
if she let it. How large and impossible the distance between here and there,
if she stopped to count the mileage. But these measurements fall flat against the small art of a day
unfolding. From what she can, she paints the canvas to its edge, splashing her laughter
so it fills each fissure, drafting a palette from a pomegranate seed, a fallen petal, the rust
of cinnamon sugar, her faith in the living rising from the scattered dust.