It must be true that we were created in god’s image. Every living thing, created out of god’s image. Last night crammed in the backseat of the car, 4 of us, me cradled in the middle almost melted there, like melting into god. Going back to my mother, to the creator, whose face in the dark car, in the night streets, gray and chiseled, stunned me, collapsed me. Sunk low so the Bangor PD wouldn’t see 4 people squeezed in the back, no seat belts.
John Steinbeck was right, everything is singular in Maine. Every object distinct, individual, a 3D cut out, made huge and illuminated against a flat background. My arm against dark pants veiny, visibly pulsing with life. The people on bicycles, the boy topless in swimtrunks helping his father in the yard, the trees, every leaf blue and of itself. You look in a direction and receive an individual smell. Look at the bog on the island, and then comes the smell of sweet grass and musk.