The one where Monica implies Chandler skip the foreplay, no questions asked, was it, did you? The one with the wham bam thank you ma’am cut to that’s how the deed is done reward on Chandler’s face. Not the one four years in, no beat but the heartache consoling God’s plan bigger than we understand life right now’s not the right time right now now or any other time right now now back to your regularly scheduled program. The one where Monica’s an achiever, hates failing tests and the one week she doesn’t get to take them. The one where they came, together, are you, I was, fuck another miscarriage might kill her. The one with the vitamins, diets, books, and doctors, internet searches how you do it every wives’ tale other tips and tricks, how many friends say every other day? I somehow get it in my head making a baby is like an episode of Friends, season 10, “The One Where Monica and Chandler Learn They Can Play But Never Win.”
but if so please share, even though I probably won’t take your advice.
Symbols on a page fascinate because I understand them. Which fascinates because what other symbols all around do I no entiendo? Last night I had a dream where seagulls would suspend in air mid-flight, frozen by life to watch the mounting star, the point where the light blue dusk meets the dark blue night, in anticipation of the world to explode. And I, the observer, could not get my binoculars to work.
So? Even when the question is good? Even when it’s a question of what you want—or is it what you think you want? What do you do? Oh, Lord, what do I do? Or am I too afraid to ask?
Segway into the other day, my drive to work, and the armadillos in the road. One was destroyed: flattened and splayed. The other too destroyed, laying in the street willing to die, heartbroken, nose close to the what remained of what existed. I swerve to miss it but into the sound of its cries. To the other side, heart wrenched looking back in a sudden moment of silence. / Now I drive by, both armadillos gone, but still see the sadness splattered on the road. Here, the memory like an echo. Something so touching from animals never associated with such: emotion, love, sadness, empathy, beauty. I swerve over the now lone spot. Towards the hope there’s still life.