April 27, 2011

Bruce’s call opened my heart in ways that I suspected it would, and am elated that it did. I haven’t been able to write. Writing I am this morning, in a flood, a commission here, a jeu d’esprit there.

There was a robbery at the Flood, the perpetrator of which was apparently caught pretty clearly on video. Though I didn’t do it, I somehow expect the video to show me. I find that odd, but I do remember back in elementary school feeling the same thing, that somehow there would be irrefutable proof that I did something I didn’t do. Don’t remember of that ever actually happening. Maybe I’ve been watching too many DVDs of police procedurals where someone gets elaborately framed. The fact that I couldn’t think of a reason why doesn’t matter; neither can they. Actually, now that I’ve denied it, I do remember it happening in the past. I’ve gone down in history as the one setting off false alarms in the dorm at college one spring. I wasn’t. At camp Y-Noah (back in Indian Guides, to plumb the deep past) I rose early to go to the bathroom. While there I noticed that someone had left sizeable turds on the floor. I was, like, six, and this amused me. But later that day I was blamed, because I had been in the lav before anyone else. I remember the vehemence of my denial, and my astonishment that public opinion remained, nevertheless, against me. My faith in justice has always exceed any actual incident of it in my life.

A bumble bee has been hovering for three days over my hydrangeas against the front porch. They won’t be blooming for weeks yet. Maybe she wants to be first when they do. Maybe she is a divinity sent to guard my house. She can be startled into flying away, but she’s back in seconds.