Student

A year ago we sat across from one another drinking coffee in someone else’s dining room. If I remember correctly (your memory was always sharper than mine), you had just returned from a run, and I had made us breakfast. Something with eggs, toast. Filled with the promise of morning and young love, we played a game. I asked you, What is music? 

You rolled your eyes and answered, sounds organized with the intent of producing an effect. Good music, you explained, demands surrender and self awareness – turns the listener into a child strapped into the backseat of a car lost to || the || undulating || blur || of || forest || and the \\ thumping // windshield \\ wiper // swish. You were trying to convey something about the debris of the past 

but I was distracted by the commanding union of your four fingers as you spoke. How compelling you were. You leaned away from me, your voice grew louder. Seemingly so detached, you clamored after the cascade of ideas that poured from your mouth. I delighted in your bumptious self-interruptions, your slipping into this beat or that, your silent echoes and your sideways breaking-aparts. I felt you there as a whole body and more. Much more. And distinct. You said you prefer the whale’s big bellow, but I’ve always been taken by the cheer of a robin. 

Earlier today I was reading Mary Oliver’s Poetry Handbook, trying to understand the difference between stressed and unstressed syllables. I couldn’t. Something about a heartbeat, that buried regular thing, so impeccably organized until it is not. You know, my cat wanders rooms and screams. She screams at every dusty corner and empty wall as if to tell me you will never really be a poet and that’s ok. I am content to remain the child in the backseat of beauty. 

What I want to say is, I am sorry that I doubted your happiness. What I didn’t understand then is that happiness is like the top of a mountain. Only with the hot burn of muscle and hurting faith do you arrive, but you do arrive. You drink water. You take a photo of heaven’s edge. You stretch your sight to the horizon and graze your fingertips against the twirling sky. Eventually the light is drenched in blue, and hazy, and you turn to face your own descent. But the mountain never goes anywhere. The mountain is always there, humming.