The Staying Game

I've often said that all poetry is political. This is because real poems deal with a human response to reality and politics is part of reality, history in the making. Even if a poet writes about sitting in a glass house drinking tea, it reflects politics.

-Yehuda Amichai

The tea kettle doesn’t whistle, it screams. Vibrations of built up steam trying to escape through a narrow opening. Once my habit was to poise beside the stovetop, listening for the stirring of water, anticipating the alarm before it could occur. “It is like a game.” I thought, 

But no. Games ought to be fun, and should not create an adversary of a teapot. Nor should afternoon tea possess any qualities other than genuine composure.  

Today, having long since removed the metal lid from its spout, the kettle steams quietly as I complete an email and close my laptop, watching the steam fill the space around it and disappear.

Mine is a studio apartment, small, but with room to include the addition of my home office, from which I have a perfect view of nearly everything I own. My front window is large, and though clear from the inside, is covered outwardly with frequently transitioning digital advertisements, which offer perfect privacy and keep the rent affordable.  

.

 I pour my tea and breath in the sweet scent of licorice, holding the warm glass gently, tenderly turning it in my palms as if it were a sentient being. I sit on a floor pillow beside a small table, real wood, whose grain brings to mind a home with a tree growing up from the center of it. Each week when groceries are delivered I place six apples on a tea towel on it and it is like an orchard rising up from the polymer carpet. 

It is costly, living in the city, but I counted it worthwhile to avoid isolation, to be where the people are. Ironic, considering it has been some weeks since I crossed my threshold. But then I am never alone for tea, or I imagine I am not. Many of the passersby are regulars, heading to or from employment, making deliveries, attending class at the yoga studio. Their numbers have diminished but the hearty few seem to press on in any climate.  

I call them Frank and Marty, Veronica, Denise. And sometimes when they stop to talk I watch their lips and pretend the words they are saying; adding tenor and accent as I wish.

It is a game of improvisation in which I have become quite expert, and which brings me great joy. Though some days the words are all sadness or anger and my voice cracks as my throat throbs and closes; so that no sound emerges at all. Nor breath. These days I turn away from the window until darkness comes.  

Games ought to be fun and should not cause grievous pain.

Today I am joined by a mother and child walking hand in hand. Mother sees a familiar face and stops to talk. The women grin widely and cock their heads at all the interesting things they are hearing from one another. Their free hands flap and gesture in the space between them.  

Together they become more colorful and alert, like birds.

I speak for them as I observe.

“Your child looks exceptional today, and so much bigger than once before.”

“Yes, yes, it is my child named Dearest, who has generally improved in every way. I see you are carrying groceries from the public market.”

“I am indeed. I must make a casserole for my husband. He does not understand how difficult these things can be.”

The women laugh, I imagine, at the ridiculous nature of the husband, and my game is interrupted by the sudden attention of the child on my window. He pulls easily from his mother’s side and approaches; face bathed in blue and red lights and both small hands pressed onto the glass, tracing images or colors with cold fingers. 

I set my now empty mug on the table and crawl toward the glass. The ads change and Dearest is covered in white light, so bright I can see auburn eyebrows, hazel eyes, a tear stain, a chewed upon coat collar.   

I know there is no sight or sound of me through the display, but I introduce myself anyway, pressing my much larger palm to the glass. For just a moment, the hazel eyes seem to meet mine and a smile reveals a missing tooth, before mother grabs a coat sleeve and tugs. She smears sanitizer on the little palms, shaking her head, not missing a step.

And then,

Gone.

Despair and determination battle as I rise and move to the entryway and turn the deadbolt. I am still, but feel the vibrations moving within me, my stomach, my hands, my heart, pulsing and tingling, building, expanding. I drag in a breath and the scream begins as a whistle in my throat. I pull open the narrow door and emerge like a vapor spewing, all at once filling the space outside.

I look for the child, for mother, but they are nowhere to be seen. Turning to face my window, I watch the advertisements pause and shift.. Restaurants are open; come inside, buy shoes; be fast, health insurance for a better life. My feet are bare and numb from the cold. I approach and kneel so that I am the size of a child with baby fat cheeks. I touch the glass but I do not see apples, or my empty mug on the little table. Only light, blindingly bright.  

I focus until my eyes water and warm tears fall. It was right and safe, in there where I cannot now see. The walls confined in early days, but then grew and grew, pressing outward until they were the whole world. And staying, it was like a game.

But, no. Games ought to end, and should not make an adversary of the world. Nor should they cause grievous pain.     

A man turns the corner and I will wait, despite the chill. He is sure-footed on the winter pavement, despite his age. 

When he looks, he sees me, and greets me with words that are his own.  

And I am made real.