Gary Galsworth, “Iterations

Iterations

Gary Galsworth

The last time I saw you your eyes had a green tint, perhaps from excitement. And your jeans were… —It comes to me that that morning was in fact a picture of the memory of that morning from the last time I had thought about it. I think of you every day, and it’s been years. Each picture another layer, and each layer changed a little. A hair’s breadth. From then till now El Niño and our own restless minds have circled the globe over and over, ever changing. So many evenings, perfect ones as well, cicadas, a setting sun catching the cedars, tea on the porch, a breeze— Why, I remember an especially moving— but then— memories of memories, each overlapping the last. An original under the layers somewhere? Perhaps. Perhaps a green tint still highlights your eyes as you pass into view. Found where?

I decided to go back, through the layers. Better said, a decision was made, something clicked and the exploration began. Spelunking in that vast underworld array. Cherished experiences slumbering in submerged subcutaneous rooms. Lodged somewhere in a vast yet commonplace geology. We expect to rediscover them fleshed out, light- or dark-eyed, interested and awaiting our arrival. God forbid our torch illuminates an assortment of bones and tendons, scraps of funk and hair. The charnel house grin of someone who could wait no longer. Finding we are all alone in a place that neither remembers nor forgets. We should have brought an extra sweater, a scented handkerchief.

You pick it up, but do you really want to re-read that letter? That old letter, a redundancy of impassioned words, uniquely directed at only you. Dry, bittersweet recollections, more alike than different from ones found scattered on ledges, in crannies elsewhere. Catacombs, each niche holding its special secret, and its selection of ordinary tibias.

I went down five hundred layers to find you, your brown hair still highlighted here and there. And your smile recognizable. Then, one thousand thin layers, and you spoke to me. How nice to hear your voice, even though I was rattled by it. Compelled, I leafed through more, eons of geology, and came upon us climbing a hill through a meadow. Clarity, center frame, fading and flawed around the edges. You are walking up ahead, your jeans snug and denim blue against your hips

You are turning and speaking as we walk, your skin pale against a halo of years. We’re heading up the ridge and across a couple of hills to a little valley where moonshiners, when you were a child, had a still. Reaching the old hilltop in love’s playful time. That time before the business of love sets in, with its business ups and downs.

After walking the path awhile I said, “What happens if I collapse up here? Have a heart attack or something. You can’t carry me back, even for a farm girl.” And I sprawled on the path on my back, arms thrown out, grass and weeds tickling my neck. Funny guy. I knew she’d come up with something. Knew she’d save me. “Well,” she said, “I’ll just have to grab you by the ankles and spin you around and drag you along, like one of those Indian pole sleds.” Smiling, she did that. Stooped down, put one leg on either side of her hips and started dragging me along. I pretended to be unconscious, with some comments. She played Indian girl, rescuing her warrior. Sounds meaty and verdant, but it’s just a barely lucid hint here and there, distinct fragments amid the blur and slag. My pockets, upended, started emptying. Loose change, dimes and quarters tinkling onto the trail. Can’t you just hear them? Keys, my glasses. And I flashed on how incongruous loose change and keys were, spilling onto a trail where two lovers looking for an old still had morphed into a faithful squaw saving her fallen warrior. I guess we both saw it because she turned and started laughing. Her laugh was a young girl’s laugh, pure and high-pitched. When I heard it, it hurt. Pain managed to find a way through the loam. Then I let the layers slip; slip away, till we got back to an aged daguerreotype, spotted, blurred and frail. Maybe this body knows something all on its own, about geology, and about the healing in obscurity. Layers; each a memory of the last remembered, each changed “a hair’s breadth” in resurrection. Light glints off eyes, not as brightly. Features move like cookie dough. Wait, don’t I know you? A heart flutters. Why?