restricted access Letting Go
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37 Letting Go I walk through abandoned fields of our house, the chairs shrinking from me like wounded horses. The rug crying out under my feet. From cupboards comes the sound of cracking dishes, accusing. I was wrong to leave you at the airport. The house wants you. I climb to your room and kneel, trying to breathe you in, but you’re not here. In a different room, inside my head, I see my grandmother, her gray hair hanging to her waist. Let it go, she tells me as she washes her feet in a dimpled tin pan. She butchered lambs, then asked their pardon on her knees by the blazing wood stove where she cooked them. My grandmother wipes her terrible feet. She is old enough. She has learned how to trust. I think of God, how he lets the universe go, the oceans breaking down the land, stars wheeling toward the dangerous rim. I wonder if he trusts it, the whole savage, delicately rigged-up thing. ...


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