Lacemakers

The Bus from Strasbourg

11 The฀Bus฀from฀Strasbourg Near dawn, the lines between things are softer: fence, trees, town no taller than a steeple. You remember the newscaster’s voice while you dressed—mass death averted, chaos at Heathrow. The feeling of a trapdoor knocked out beneath you. Was it only last year you believed you could float, just a little, if you knew how to ask the air? The window glass on the bus, cool against your cheek, electric towers rising from a cornfield like steel angels. Every day the world grows more alien. Your body last week, in a room with curtains for walls, the doctor saying, We’ll let you know. The body the one thing you imagined was safe. You came from the hospital then, windows brightening the street. The rush of men and women, shapes you fell into, like looking up when the sky has opened to snow. Outside Frankfurt, your bus slows. Factories are smoldering castles: 12 smoke, brick, flame. As a child you dreamed of holes that opened wherever you went—the park, gravel walk, front porch. Holes as far as you could run. You would wake then, listen for a sound, the whole fabric of things seamed. ...