The Second Half
inspired by Ross Gay’s “Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude”
by Lindsey Bronwyn Fisher
I didn’t know gliding chips
through a bowl of hummus
was a love act.
That dog hair
attached to shirts
was a type of embrace.
That it’s worth the effort
to use chopsticks over forks
and that freshly washed bedsheets
are tutors in how to be kinder to oneself.
Seven years ago
I sent out a radio signal to the universe,
stating I was ready for it to overtake me.
And it did.
So if these rose bushes
and hornets’ nests
were always here,
then thank you for waiting.
If my backyard was always a marble,
swirled in the neurotic nature of squirrels,
then thank you for your moving presence.
I want to say a thank you to pine trees,
whose meditating aroma
brings me into the present moment
where all sights and sounds
are witnessed and not missed.
To rocks covered in moss, thank you.
Truly, thank you
for the way you let rainwater
trickle off your green.
I am thankful now
for getting to slip on wet leaves,
for being able to bruise my elbows,
for my index toe
that is still purple
from jogging down a mountain at night.
I am thankful
for having a body
that pulses with blood
and does not dwell under unkept grass
where flowers are laid down
by the hands that miss me most.
Thank you to those people
who sit in burgundy leather chairs.
Every thought I have
is yours.
Every word I type
is because of you.
They told me my alcoholism
is still doing pushups in the parking lot.
And I know that the sun still sets in the west,
that the vulture still soars at eye level
while resting on top of a mountain,
and that a shot of hot vodka,
hidden in an old boot, does not fill
the expanding territory of a black hole.
That with every second chance
I must remember
there is a part of myself
that is still a pillager,
presenting its wings to the air,
waiting for a carcass
to appear in the middle of the road.
That there is still a part of me
that wants all of me to dive.
But I don’t.
Because I have seen river bends
shaped like U-turns
and I have watched elk wade
into turquoise waters
where mineral-dripped-bluffs
reflect the sun at day’s end.
Because I have felt the wind blowing
while standing on a cliff’s edge
and I have heard the tall grass rustling.
So I want to say thank you,
to my swim cap and goggles,
to the white flags
that let me know I’m five yards away
from hitting my head.
I want to express
how eternally grateful I am for knowing
what morning grass on bare feet feels like
and for what a loving body nestled
against my back every morning
means to me.
I want my younger self to know
that a knife is just a knife now
and the kitchen drawer is its home.
I want her to know
that we will watch as butter melts into toast.
Golden and seeping sunshine
into every crumble.