January 8

A day late, but not quite a dollar short: That was the story of his life, it seemed. Running behind but still somehow managing to eke out just enough to be considered a success. Or, at least, not a failure. He didn’t know how many times he’d been here before, sitting on the edge of his seat, biting back the urge to scream, fighting his own anxieties for no apparent reason: He hadn’t arrived, he’d never arrive, but at the same time, he’d never drown either. He’d simply continue to be.

January 7

There was a little girl who thought she’d challenge the world to change, to become the way she wanted it to be. She had grown tired of the angry way it had decided to march onward, day after day, and decided that it needed to learn to walk backwards, or at least sideways. She told her mother of the plan, but her mother told her that she was daft and that she needed to learn to accept things the way they were. She told her father of the plan, but her father laughed and patted her on the head and suggested she go back to playing with her dolls. She told her brother of the plan, but he shouted at her to leave him alone and slammed his door in her face. She told her sister of the plan, but her sister was busy with nefarious plans of her own and didn’t have time for such nonsense. Only her grandmother bothered to listen with an open mind, and then smiled softly and nodded and told her that big challenges require big plans. And so the girl set out to plan, taking the largest sheet of paper she could find and the smallest pencil she could find so that she would have plenty of room to lay out everything she needed, and then she set out to work.

January 6

once, when i was glass
and the morning sun was still high in the sky
i could see the rainbows
shimmering through my skin

the road was long in front of me
but i looked forward to the walk

once, when i was steel
and the noontime clouds crept and dawdled
i could see the reflections
dancing on my flesh

the road was curved and ominous
through the thickening wood

now that i am wooden
and the afternoon light strains through the trees
i can see the wisps of smoke
from my embered soul
and i cannot see the road

— ptkh 010614

January 5

On the fifth day at sea, I was set adrift in a rowboat and left to my own devices. In the boat, I had an oar, rations for three days, and an umbrella. There was no cell phone, which was just as well, because I was out of reach of any towers anyway. There was no radio, either.

This was not punishment: This was of my own choosing, and my own design.

I watched the ship disappear onto the horizon; it took an hour, by my reckoning, but my reckoning was not the most reliable. Especially not in the hours that followed until nighttime, as I left the oar dry and felt the steady rhythm of the waves guide my little boat.

What madness had I gotten myself into?

January 4

There is solace in silence
Quiet that seeps in from the shadows
Sleek as a cat, padding softly across tiles

There is solace in silence
Snowflake settling on autumn leaves
Swirled by chilling winds

There is solace in silence
But at the same time,

— ptkh 010414

January 3

You were the Buddha.

That’s what you’d told us when you’d gone to China and the children had gathered around you, this towering behemoth of a man with a round belly and an expansive smile.

When you were lying there, flat, stomach distended from post mortem gasses, I tried to be sad at your loss. I have never grieved the way I feel I should, and so I thought of the Buddha. I rubbed your belly, “for luck” I said, and for me, that was the first part of letting go.

— ptkh 010314

January 2

There is a paper wasp nest dangling from a tree on our easement, high above the street. It is easily the size of a human head, even desiccated as it is from winter months of disuse.

Back in autumn, after the leaves had fallen and made the nest visible to anyone who walked by, I saw some kids throwing stones at it, but nothing came of that.

I wonder if it will fall before spring, and if there are dormant wasps sleeping inside it, and why the wasps chose such a spindly branch to build on in the first place.

But for now it dangles, like Medusa’s head held tauntingly up at the end of Perseus’s hand, the wasp entryway the silent scream of the Gorgon.

— ptkh 010214

January 1

At some point, walking along the snow-flocked train tracks in the winter evening’s half-light, I became aware.

By this I mean: All that I was was now. I had no past to dwell within, chiding myself, steeped in regrets. I had no future lingering in the wings like a Dickens villain, ready to set me to denser tasks.

I had no recollection of where I was going. I had no recollection of where I had been.

At that moment, I was at peace, and so I let that moment become my entirety.

And then it was gone, and I walked onward.

— ptkh 010114