First lay your arms slack at your sides. Set your
spine straight, make it a rod pinning you to this vast map. Bend
your arms at
the elbow only. Raise your hands before you, palms up. Bring
the hands together, pinkie-to-pinkie, wrist-to-wrist. Feel your
pulse move in both hands. Curl your fingers up and in to make
yourself a bowl. As in a children’s game. As in begging.
Let it be empty, this bowl. Attach nothing to it—no gender,
no name, no inertia of metaphor. It is simply the air you hold.
Weigh it, swirl it, make it still. Now wish it full. Give it
your only desire—another summer morning at the lake, your
mother’s final smile, some favorite smooth patch of skin,
a crooked tooth, that last great Little League season. The moment
of your wish, like the instant of pure darkness before the reels
click and the movie plays, when we all—strangers, together
without connection beyond forward-locked eyes—when we all
know darkness like a teaspoon of the end, that moment of wish,
that heavy glance into an empty palm-bowl, that moment we can
see it full, that is it.