Folded
*
I reach into my pocket and feel it folded there.
It’s the picture I had talked up in advance, 10 years ago.
Now, it’s 10 years later. I touched it and remembered
how much the image in front of me had changed since that first pleat to fit it into the square.
Oh, me.
Me
me
me
me
me.
But you!
It does actually have to do with we, you know - the us of it all.
us
us
us
us
How we perceive such folded things,
with their creases, their episodic memory.
Earlier we were so distracted by certain details, discriminating, and then after this long while, we can see the whole thing and not just the images but also the paper it’s on, the corners ripped, or worn to a 45 degree angle, a curve.
It appears the whole situation has vintaged itself.
My sister friend found something folded in her back pocket of sorts: an old handbag.
It’s the wedding ring she thought she’d lost.
It appears again, just when she’s about to leave it- the marriage- altogether.
She throws it, crumbled, into the lake,
watching it fade in her own reflection as she peers down over the edge of the dock.
Another woman gets herself to give away HER ring, to me of all people- as it had folded on itself - what it represented at least, and when she pulled it out of her pocket, she passed on the gold to represent our union, not the one that had long since passed.
See, there’s a secret here.
It’s not the thing that is the relationship, the memory.
But it is the thing that’s the promise of the relationship.
And that, that -
is something worth writing about.
The promise, the talisman that represents it, and to whomever hold it,
gets to promise to themselves, too.
So, I’ll take up those rings and those photographs, and those memories- stale or otherwise here.
Let’s-
Yes-
You and me,
let’s put it in a hot brew.
Here.
Stir it.
We’ll get the funky film off it all.
Because to make it kosher, you got to heat it up.
And if you want to go further, the other route or rite is to bury it.
Either way, the bad stuff either gets burned off or buried -
and then all that ‘s left is the good stuff.
The promise.
The commitment.
The staff.
The gold
The element.
So opening here - see here, look at this.
It’s not the fault of the picture, only fault lines in the folds.
And to nobody’s fault.
It just happened that way.
But it’s still golden here.
May I see your hand?
Would you like this?
On a finger or in your palm…
***
a note on this work: This was written via a prompt by Abre Tu Boca, and uncannily matched in words and concept a visual body of work I endeavored long ago. It’s always amazing, these sutures through time. You can see the work here.