USPS

It wasn't until weeks later, when the letter from the library arrived via the US Postal Service, that she realized exactly her error. As unconsciously as she had executed the act of misplacement, still, when she saw that the books, now six weeks overdue, were considered permanently lost, she recalled that afternoon, the turning into the Post Office with Hildilid's Night and The Mitten and then turning out of the drive-by drop-off without them.

She had been thinking of something else, of course, as usual, as something else is infinitely more interesting than the downtown traffic at 3:47 pm on a Tuesday afternoon. That is how it came to be that the library books, rather than ending up in the library drop box, as they properly should have, and as was her every intention, landed in the drop box of the US Postal Service post office just two blocks south of the library.

Milk and honey

The other day she visited my house. We sat on the couch while the kids played in the next room, sat cross-legged and comfortable, and she said, you know, I am just constantly irritated. And I wonder, is this the new me? Is the new me an irritable mother? Because I don't really like to be this way.

I knew what she meant. We laughed and I made some tea, tea with cinnamon and lemongrass and a hint of chocolate, and we drank it iced, with milk and honey.

Matthew 17:20

Mustard seed conjured up images of fields, fields of yellow flowers like the surface of the sea on a windy day, stretching end to end across the basin of a valley, while the mountains emerged grey and sheer, capped with white, forming a container for the undulating masses of flora. The sky hovered over all, threatening rain.

The train rolled on through, disturbing the quiet communion of earth and sky, breaking the continuum of nature with its harsh angles and stark linearity. The desire for a shred of faith defined her whole journey, had eluded and indeed tormented her, yet here it was, laid out before her, as far as the eye's witnessing could reach: a field of mustard seed.

First day

He woke up that morning, planted his two feet firmly on the ground where they touched the cold of the naked floor and transferred their warmth, receiving the strength of the earth beneath the air beneath the wood under him. Today was the day -- just one day -- but in fact a series of days, weeks, minutes, instants had accumulated until this day was inevitable.

His stomach protested. As firm as his feet on the ground dangled his head in the haze that had developed in the middle space of the room, a wave of grey pressure that seemed to originate near the back of his head but which had floated forward and was now hovering like a pulse of static over his line of sight. Oxygen. Coffee. He propelled himself off the bed and into a standing position, taking his phone as an accomplice to the whole ordeal.

Wind shift

The air hung so very still, still like the moment of dawn, still like time had slowed to a crawl, as though everything had reverted to a hibernation of self-preservation, and they were left, the two of them, alone in a slumbering world.

There was nothing more to do, really, except wait it out. The humming buzzing of a bee wafted through the scene like a brief moment of static on a silent radio station, weaving in and out, settling finally on her hand, a point of life in the desert, a tiny vortex of energy, and they both watched it as though it were the last living thing on earth, a miracle of survival in the suspended animation that surrounded them.

A gust of wind struck them, its force more in the element of surprise than in the collected strength of air particles, and the bee stumbled, and they all turned their entire beings towards it, as though towards the morning star. The moment broke apart, as though the earth, realizing the futility of waiting, had resumed breathing.