When Nothing Makes Sense

I just learned that my brother-in-law had a stroke.

My juggler is waiting by his bedside in the hospital. What a blessing that her son shoe-shined the day off, so she doesn’t have to wait alone for doctors to tell her what happened. 

I remember Vincent crying about his father when he was a God in the Black Forest and we listened to twigs murmuring on fishing lines.

I’m sure, she’s very worried and comfortable shoes don’t help. They rarely make me feel better. They make me feel like I’m looking old and stupid. 

Long Latin words make things worse. The fine print is so hard to lace.

I like my juggler very much, maybe I even love her. Well, she’s my juggler. Cast iron fences were in our way, but Berlin moved us closer. I hope a silver necklace moon helps her through the night. She can’t lift her hands higher than the grave which must make everything extra hard. 

My father also is worried, a rare state of sky behind his eyes. 

I am as far away as dust dancing in the sunrays of church windows.

The dog comes in, jumps on the feather, and looks at me with angel wings in her binoculars. I can’t imagine life without her and wonder what is going through my juggler’s stars.  

Blue lines she almost wrote on faded yellow paper and when the ink was dry, she cried. She didn’t keep it because salt was everywhere. It would have been too complicated. 

Who are we when we lose whom we love? A twinkling under water? A lure thrown by sirens posing as white horses on the spray? Why do we knock on wood?