Pressed Me Thin Into My Sheets
I’m convinced of it. Now actually after all these years. And even in recent months, what with the sudden conversation about whether to drink or not to drink and what it means for our clarity. I suppose I have known the answer all along, whether hidden, suppressed, or otherwise. I always thought it was the clarity of mind that caused me to raise the glass. And therefore I have always carried a certain kind of guilt when I drank to escape the clarity, deserving or not, but guilt nonetheless. Embarrassed or afraid of why I would need to drink to erase and to numb and to subdue this clarity, some would say reality. But today I say to you I drink and it is the drinking that provides me the clarity. Not the other way around. Drinking is what opens it up. The possibilities. The in between space. I think it is this new truth that will reshape things for me. To drink is to become aware and present in this third space we used to converse about in our youth.
To further the thought I drank again. And it was when I closed my eyes, laying in bed, neither awake nor asleep, moving in and out of awareness that it rushed back. The soaring price of limes and the lack thereof when we needed them the most. The pasture with the shrub line cutting down the middle. Sloping down and away on the right and down and to the front on the left before gradually climbing again back up toward the ridge where the fence line was. The bluebirds and their rust colored breasts. The blue dress. Ohio river to Big Sandy. A beauty to behold. Like a diamond in the coal. A bright white beautiful heaven hanging over me. It all blended and layered and folded in on itself and pressed me thin into my sheets. I had said to drink was to open oneself up to It and this was true. But to drink again was to immerse yourself in It. Saturated. Dripping. Caught in the middle between the two worlds. Enlivened to the possibility. The crickets came. The stars dotted. And the fan hummed. I see you rushing now. Tell me how to reach you.