My sister reminds me on holiday I’d take roadkill pictures, that’d end up blurry, a self-censor, because the after’s not something you can capture. Not explainable, adequate or photogenic.
Then, death was a make-believe marvel that Bible stories disproved or made points of, and it was an other person place which the pocket of my stomach was yet to inhabit. Similarly, I’d take fairground rides, awe-full, off-peak to queue skip, without bolts and seat-fittings invading eyespace. And if dad said it was okay it was okay.
And my bravery is a moment push now, a fluttery seat belt turbulence, in which I sometime regret analysing Genesis, John, Jude, with a graduate skepticism, until close-read passages were unworkable poems evidenced as undo, don’t do, did.
There’s solace in the nothing. But where does the skin go?