Alas, Poor Yorick

The morning after, nothing is left but the bones. The soft flesh was only paper and pulp after all. One quick conflagration, and the pretense of substance is ash.

“You used to be kind.”

Kindling and flint.

“Here’s what I hate.”

Dry twigs.

“The problem with you is. . .”

So fleeting a spark, you almost miss it. You walk on. Behind you, it catches. It is the ones who know us best of all who find the most flammable acre. They drop the match exactly there. They call it an accident.

Would you know me from my dental records? Could you identify me from the scraps of DNA? I don’t know what’s become of my tender organs. I can’t seem to find my heart.

The morning after, what remains of me arises despite the stink and grit. Small rituals are the only saving grace. Keep the practice up when you are well, and it will force you into motion when the roof caves in. Go to work, hug the kid, force the feet across the dance floor. Smooth balm on the wounds. Floss. Never mind the sudden sobbing in the bathroom stall, the hollow eyes, the ghoulish smile. Walk the skeleton across the day. It will keep your kid in shoes and shelter. It will earn you one more chance to slap some on some plaster and pray the golem to life.

Whatever you do, don’t ask the question: Was there anything on these bones to begin with? Was the best of me just paper and pretense all along?

(I wouldn’t dare let such a thought work its way into the marrow.)

Then at work, a card arrives. Strange thing, a card. Who sends these anymore? Who sends them to an office? It is from a man whose name I know, but even that is fleeting. When I have dug deep for the energy to move my creaking frame to the contra dance, this man has taken my hand and twirled the joints loose. I know very little. He is married, he works with students in some capacity. He has a fine smile and an even finer swing. I have seen him maybe two times in as many months.

And yet, despite all the night-before evidence suggesting the figure bearing my name is both broken and broke, the morning after, a card arrives from a virtual stranger.

It reads:

“There are people whom one loves and appreciates immediately and forever. Even to know they are alive in the world is quite enough."

Sometimes I do not have the courage to lift the burnt, barren edge to see the extent of the damage. But something akin to soft skin remains. If I can still feel its pulse, then it still lives. Grafting and new growth might occur yet. One inch, one breath, one touch at a time. The heart may take a little time to dig out of this rubble, but it has been seen. I have a witness.