Claudia and Duffy

At night, the ice weasels come

I'm suffering separation anxiety from my old bed, which, although inferior to my new one, knew the kinks of my body. Hannah cracked my back for me tonight; it groaned and complained about it, not truly grateful for the experience that relieved the rest of my bodily tensions, but it got over its annoyance and I'm loathe to go get it knotted up again.

The uncommon moments in life are those when we are not retrospective or looking forward, but being intensely aware of each moment as it occurs, one after another, mathematical points that cannot be held in the consciousness because they would instantly become memories. It is a wonderful - or horrible - and oddly rare experience.

I am amazed by the regenerative abilities of the roof of my mouth. I burn it - one week on fresh-from-the-fryer popcorn shrimp, one week on tea - and by the end of the day the cells are beginning to slough off. The next morning the good pain of healing tempts my tongue to prod my hard palate, a niggling attraction that lasts all day. That second night, I brush my teeth wincing, as the new skin protests the bumps and scratches to its still-present dead outer layer. But a few short hours later, only a spot or two remains sore, and drinking red grapefruit juice is a pleasure like kneading an overused muscle.

How lovely that we are physical, too.

How strangely reassuring that the moon outside has not changed very much in two thousand years. Jesus saw with his eyes what I see with mine, from another spot on this very same planet. I wonder which disciple was the last one to fall asleep at night, who lay on his back tracing the shadowed dimples of the moon, who listened attentively to the nerve cells in his shoulders and hips describing in detail each small root and pebble pressing into them but lay still rather than shift in search of a more comfortable position.

It is good.
'Night.