Flannery O’Kafka

 

 

Before it began, I was calling this my Summer of Domesticity. I thought it would be all black and grey whites and Easter and Oak Trees, but it’s been pound-shop-film blue and white white, and above all, it’s been about finding Christ in the water and the light, and again the everlasting light (which, I believe, is under the everlasting arms, but I’m not entirely sure about that). To my surprise, blood has not made much of an appearance during this season, and when it has, it’s been hidden bleeding — more like the itch below the skin kind that nits cause. It’s still painful and feels impossible to escape, but it’s not really visible to everyone else, is it? Anyway, I’m oversensitive. I imagine a lot of terrible scenarios. It’s possible I’m making a big deal of things and I just need to settle into this domestic life, or maybe it is this all-mighty Suffering that is calling me (or the Almighty, suffering) to come, to swim, to be blinded, to drown, and to finish with a flourish by not letting my heart be troubled. I throw my hands in the air and shrug ‘mystery.’