The city seemed preternaturally quiet today, almost like an indrawn breath.  The news oscillated between a live feed of the world trade center and a live feed of the floods in Jersey.  I suspect it will be like this until Monday, at least.

I’ve been tracing the labyrinth in the mornings.  An old girlfriend sent it as a wedding gift, which I thought at first was a bit of a statement on how far apart we’d fallen.  (I’d brought her to the one in Pass-a-Grille years ago, back when I was still in Florida.)  The last time I went to a labyrinth, I was living in Oakland and had just had my heart broken.  Suffice it to say that was a long time ago, before Kincaid’s, before law school.

When I opened her present I looked at it and wondered that the memory of a pink church on the beach had stuck, and placed it in the dresser for lack of anywhere else to put it.  Where it promptly became buried under a pile of clothing.

And then one day a few weeks ago I took it out from under the clothing and sat down to let my fingers trace out the path.  The wood is varnished, shiny and almost sticky at times, and as I run my fingers along it I can’t help but think of the day it will be smooth and shiny, the varnish rubbed out and replaced by the oil of my fingers.

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