Many thanks to the bison I ate last night. I hope it had a good life and a decent death. I needed the protein. Or at least I thought I did.
The killings I am party to usually have a rationale: I killed that rooster in self-defense. The bison and the housefly, the rooster and the rattlesnake, these I can explain.
As I reset the mousetrap near the firewood on our porch, the Source of Life appears clad in a wife-beater T-shirt, spewing putrid breath.
“Catch another one?” He picks his teeth with a splinter and leers at me.
The odors and images of decomposition rise in waves and begin to permeate everything I love. I rush to close the doors and windows, draw the shades, and mist the air with peppermint. The Source of Life orbits our shared reality and seeps through hairline cracks in a haze of moldy blue. She’s happy.
“I could use some help,” I tell It. Her. Him. They. And I include myself in case there’s some part of me unaware of the long line of lorries filled with insufferable demands and questionable aspirations stalled along the congested routes of my timeline.
“What’s up?” The Source of Life often exudes a certain nonchalance. Like a shill mining for clicks. Disarming on the surface. Deadly underneath.
“Um, well. I have too many shoes,” I stammer. “But none of them are quite right. And I’m not sure if I like sticks anymore. And I can’t seem to keep my fingernails clean or properly shaped.” (I come from a long line of proud fingernail tenders, so this failure is especially humiliating.)
“Diving deep, I see,” The Source of Life chuckles. “Got anything else?”
“I don’t even understand the Systems Charge on our power bill,” I wail in frustration.
The Source says nothing.
“You want a deeper dive?” I continue. “Fine.”
So many failings come to mind.. “How about we tackle pride, anger, envy, greed, and revenge?” I snap. Then add, “Or fear.” I look for an exit.
“And there we go.” The Source has morphed into a formidable Hawaiian woman. She blocks my retreat. The banquet table is set with fine wine, strawberries, grapes, apples, cheese, Portuguese sweet bread, and an array of manicure accoutrements, including a basin of scented holy water for the soaking and softening of cuticle and callous.
“Aloha,” I mutter, glancing sideways.
The mercy in her eyes turns my bravado to putty; I’m stricken and ashamed. My body revealed. My hands given over.
“There we go, beloved,” she repeats as she guides my aching fingers into the iridescent liquid. “There we go.”
Short visits with an honest God 