Something congealed on the edge of last week. I couldn’t tell you what it was. It just was. That’s all.
Whatever the reason I’ve been left to contemplate things in a rather mundane way. It was a peeking of a sort, a look of some airy weightlessness over the lip of life and wondering if I might get caught in the process.
Some might consider this a fluttering moment. I can’t. My head can’t get around it all. My brain wants to analyze moment-by-moment the fractured bits of time that have been strung together for the past weeks, months and years. Yet here I am. Nothing quite so weighty as a mundane sort of contemplation that doesn’t seem to have legs quite yet.
Claire has this imaginary friend. His name is George. He eats dinner with us, but otherwise seems to spend a lot of time hiding in Claire’s bedroom. I have been setting a place at the table for George. He eats invisible food then wanders upstairs to brush his invisible teeth. Or so I’m told.
George understands my fluttering.
George knows things about our reality that no one else can know. He just does.