I wish I knew the language of change

The kind of subtle change that creeps on me on my weekly walks

That drives me mad with desire and anticipation

With fear and unarticulated longing

The kind of change I feel but cannot quite grasp.

Fall could be a word to describe it.

Today, as I was sitting by the lake

In a state that I hope one day will become a meditation

But for now I’ll call it not fidgeting and not checking my phone

I noticed so many things falling

I heard them before seeing them:

Soft splashes in the water, thuds on the soft dirt of the bank

Acorns,

twigs,

berries,

crabapples

And leaves,

but these make no sound.

On the way home I was thinking about my grandmother

Of her soft, plump, wrinkly, dry hands

Of her dead siblings I have heard about just once

Of the quiet secrets she took to her grave

Then I thought about children who never came home from Kamloops

I cried

Then I thought about the crumbling coastline of California

Although I’ve never been there, never even wanted to go there

I held these thoughts, one by one

As they pushed me to the edge

Of my vulnerability.

Then I asked myself

Where in my body

I feel change:

The first place is at the base of my throat

Where too much emotion forms a tight lump

Then there is a place between

My left shoulder blade and my left breast

Where change produces a kind of tingling

Then there is a place at the very bottom of my belly

In my gut

Where change metabolizes

And finally in my hands

That my mama always said looked like my grandmother’s hands

Warming my palms

Dripping from the tips of my fingers

Falling.