Grateful Canyon: Angela Townsend
Grateful Canyon
by Angela Townsend
There are advantages to being an anxious turnip. You roll across the earth aware of terrors that never came. They did happen, under your skin. They stayed there and returned to the ground. They composted into tomorrow, and tomorrow came.
Tomorrow came, and you were not fired. You did not drop your yogurt and splatter live and active cultures on the linoleum. You did not forget your insulin, your keys, or your fading aunt’s birthday. The glass did not shatter. The generator did not fail. Your cat did not get his head stuck in the sink drain, where he inserts it nightly, diving for imaginary oysters.
You celebrate constantly because you worry constantly. Your anxiety sings the overture for the musical. Shiny apples do not conjure fairytales of falling down the stairs trying to carry too many things. Neither do they get to the bottom and exult in equilibrium. You do.
You can’t decide if, given the wishes, you would banish these prologues. Your hair might lay smooth if it weren’t standing on end, ready to protect the realm from barbarians and inconveniences. You would age gracefully if the fast-forward button wasn’t trapped under your thumb.
But the telegrams that never arrive crumble into compost. Your hands wring, and the verse takes shape. It is as reliable as the cuticles that regrow once gnawed. Everything you write curves into a “U.” The smile is organic and rebellious. History is not a rope bridge, but a canyon. Your worst trait is the very skateboard that carries you back up. You have momentum.
Your throat is always tight, so you gulp the mountain air. The blithe forge on with walking sticks that leave silent “O”s in the soil. You cannot stay silent. You build an altar at the top of every unlived tragedy. You have inserted your head in decay, but you did not get stuck. Subatomic mercies are sweet on your tongue. You know what might have been.
You know there is a gentler way to live, and you wonder. You could try to peel the rippling skin of fear. You could bear your flesh to the sun that never reads your cautionary tales. You might walk in peace instead of pacing the perimeter.
Tonight, you will roll to the bottom again, picking up speed. Your eyes are too watery to see clearly. Your hands are open. You gather the grains.
You did not drop your music box. You did not mail the love letter to the wrong address. The ice storm did not plunder the power. You tumble upward. You chew your cuticles and taste daily bread.
