Chairs at Sundown

Blue chair in the corner. He sits. Within himself, he rises and sinks, signaling presence with a spark of recognition, revealing retreat when his eyes take on the darting agitation of a man falling below.
*
During the rise just a minute ago, he spoke to his wonder on the workings of weather, dry and wet on the same day in different places, oceans filled in their sandy beds but not spilling out, rocks and mountains remaining rooted. He describes systems as finds them, and in them finds surprise. Then he sinks again.
*
In bed now, on his side, chatting with others that I can’t see. Desk chair empty and papers scattered. He has phantom friends in this place who come to sit by him as the sun goes down. A half dozen confer on pending re-organization; this room, his history, the ranking of his lineage, the order of all things past and yet to be. Facts split and connect with older drifting fragments, forming new transient wholes, un-tethered, notable until, like thunderheads, they release their shape and recede.
*
Wheel chair in his path. One of us on his left to steady him. Sit in this chair. Sister invites him, uses a singing voice. Assurances. This chair belongs to you. He wants to give it away, give it to his wife, give it to someone who needs it. He needs it. He needs very little. He needs everything. He turns and crumples to the place marked out for him. One of us rolls him out.
*
He shouts. Angry. Someone has lied to him. Demise! There has been a demise he says. A drowning in the pool. Why will no one speak to him about this death? A classmate, he says. A boyhood friend. Someone he knew. His body is seated as his mind roams. He roars. His magnifying glass sits a foot or so to his right. A book rests, face down, opened to the same page as yesterday and last week. He draws in air in small breaths, makes smaller words and becomes quiet.
*
Biggest loves, though few, find affirmation in completion. They say: I am complete in your life and you in mine. I am witnessed in your eyes and you in mine. They hear the omitted bits of language and can reassemble the whole of what once was. You do not need to remember these truths anymore. They have done. This house is warm. Quiet your fretful mind and be still.

Water

I am the knuckle curled beneath your hang-down chin, lifting against your ‘no’. I am the voice asking you to look up, look at me, look in my eyes. I have your secrets and I am keeping them, cradling them like helpless babies. You hold back, turn away. Refuse.

If you could look at me to see what floats like a ghost in the space between your eyes and mine, and what waits just beyond that ghost? Truths may take a different shape, may not bite, and bring another chance. Who else wants you to listen and what are the offered words? An answer for now may be just this much:

Have faith. Faith enough to know that you do have a soul, A soul that can cross the distance between here and wherever it seeks to go. You could let that curled little girl within you stand up, have its run into the mist that waits among the trees just beyond us. You have all you need to arrive.

When tears form at the corners of your eyes, they form then in mine. And they form all around us. They catch light and allow it to bend, shine, and catch color. Let ours be deep green. Let it be red or autumn orange. Let it be invisible. Let it be everywhere.