\ they found it

i adore those who laugh at their own bombed jokes. sometimes i practice on my own, telling stories that no one could possibly find funny. humor is not the same as affection, in this way, in that people sometimes say, 'i guess you and i don't share the same sense of humor,' and it's true, sometimes we laugh at what others find horrid, and sometimes others laugh, and we ask why, and they tell us, and we cringe. but affection, comforting the weak in their greater moment of weakness, while not universal, somehow still brings the world to an understandable scale.

i suppose i cannot begrudge the affection, because she once chose to sleep in the car, and there were times i thought of cracking the window and whispering encouragement, or even tying all the fairy tales in my head together, climbing down the knots along the outside wall. they didn't cut the grass in those old stories, and roads were lined with trees hiding bandits, so few willing to give to the poor. all the ways we deal with unfortunate truths involve fantasy. why did my dog have to die? you ask, and she tightens her lips, says, he's not dead, he's running in the fields of heaven. will i? no, the corners white, no. but all the people who hurt us, you ask, and no, no, darling, floods were sent, washed away all the evils. really? he gave to the poor? and he slayed the dragon. he revived the dead. he shared the gift of fire with man. he sacrificed his son. he dressed as a wolf. he hid in a lamp. he rode upon the frog's back. he turned the water into wine. he threw beans, found slippers, rose again.

he came to me when i was young, told me i was beautiful, i followed him and washed his hair, and we walked through all the trials together, and he was taken from me, but you came in his place, and that was why it was all worth it, the back seat of this car, the promise of a future and we'll eat honey, drink milk, maybe even move far away from where we can hear, pack up the animals and start over.