Bonsai Trees
December 03, 2008
Someone once told me that a bonsai tree starts out at a regular tree size; over time it's re-potted in smaller and smaller containers, forced to writhe and wriggle and wither into a twisted little twig of a thing.
Walking home, I look out at the snow clouds dark and low, sweeping over our glittering city like dry ice fog in an old science fiction film. The moon is piercing and indifferent, floating in the dead center of the sky like the whole world is hanging straight down from it on an invisible thread.
They crowd around her, the clouds I mean, their gray black bellies tight against the horizon, shielding her from the last touch of golden light climbing over the edges of the earth. They reach out their feathery fingers, float them out farther than far just to touch her radiant silver cheek. It's clear from down here the way they covet her, crowded like a pack of ghosts around a shimmering angel. She shines indifferent to their burning affection, shrugging them away like gray rain water off of so much glimmering mercury. Up there, up there where she sails, it's bluer than blue. It takes your breath away; turns your lungs inside out.
Sometimes I lie awake in bed, face down and flat like an upside down corpse, my big hands folded under my thighs, my shoulders curled around my neck. I open my eyes and stare at the bump and scratch texture of my plaster wall. The silence is clear and ringing. I feel my hot blood, squeezing through my veins in regular throbbing rhythm. There's an empty space swimming in my stomach, something so vast it hurts to imagine. Sometimes I go sailing in that space. Sometimes I see just how far I can get from shore.
I have a picture of you in my head. I hold onto it like a sailor staring off at the last remnants of land receding over the horizon. You're on a park bench, an orange kiss of sunlight dancing in your eyes and in your hair. Your hands are folded small and neat on your lap. A breeze breathes over you; your scarf and collar twist and play like a robin in a shallow spring bath.
Back in bed, the wall stares back at me. Yellow light from the kitchen plays over the crests of the tiny cracks and fissures in the brittle paint. A buzz, a click, and the refrigerator switches on; a dull reverberating hum that fills my apartment like motor oil. Something behind my face and above my throat recoils and climbs down into a deep lonely well. Sometimes I hate the night time, sometimes the sun just won't rise soon enough. I squeeze my eyes closed tight.
Tags for this piece: city creative relationships moon bonsai clouds