Today I am here to write
Today I am here to write because it is my joy, because late last night I sat in a parked car on the side of a country road for the express purpose of watching the sky grow dark at the end of May, to note when � if � the sunset ever faded, to listen for sounds, to anticipate animals making sounds in the night before the pigs in the barn started dreaming loudly of slaughter, to feel the lights of the passing cars turn to waves that shake my car into shuddering as they brush past, keeping my body straight in case they hit us in the dark that is not the dark, and then a star, and then I leaned my head and shoulders out the open window though the night was cold and frost in the forecast to see the sky’s face grow freckled in the dark, tiny points of light, to watch trees and barns become silhouettes then shapes, to see the grasses tall as fenceposts turn white in the glare of headlights, to inhale the good smells of hay and manure and grasses all exhaling into the cool drink of water that is evening.
My hands grew cold but still I jotted notes on my phone and observed � I don’t know exactly what a prayer is, Mary Oliver said. Though I do know how to pay attention and did so, I did not fall into the grass, kneel in the grass, stroll through the field as she did: when I checked the temperature on my phone, there was an article about tick nests. But I did sit idle and blessed as the traffic settled and the pigs too and the whole day under the thick blanket of night.
I intend to use these observations as I do strawberries � picking them for jam and smoothies and pie and fiction � but like when I pick strawberries for preserving, I take one perfect berry and bite into it in the moment, seeing its brilliant colours glisten, feeling its plump cool ripeness, smelling the fragrance that candy can never truly imitate, feeling the rasp of its seeds against my tongue, savouring its sweetness.
It is nearly 10:30 when it is definitely night, when all that remains of the day is a slight bleaching in the west. I’ve picked enough to preserve in my writing this morning. I turn on the car and with it my heated seats and I turn toward the city, my home, my bed, but also toward this moment when the sun has climbed back up after its brief nap and I wake early myself to turn the night to the dark sweet jam of story, to words I can spread on toast to share with you.
