I knew baptismal was seismic; however, it’s an entrance into rivers, flowing water, caged understanding. Made somber, it’s heavy in the air, winds clouding joys. Every element, each ghost, a mind filled with phantoms—each memory. I’ve trailed city deserts, wanton for excellence, withering and walking, trying to uncover satisfaction, an isolated undertaking. Upon a full moon, blaming behavior, each mansion made electrical. Season moodiness; eternal ripples. Humans make fullness: kitchenware filled with flavors, ovens filled with meats, stuffing fraught with celery, onions, garlic; rolls, pies, three to four days of cooking. Such sacrifice; saving for months; all for one day. Religious souls, spirit recipes, telling tales of the last three generations. Elements change and remain the same; the joy seems different. Younger identity is different than adult perception. The audience might feel it, to see it, to imagine how it shifts—celebration comes with sadness, this is adulthood. Time and time again—a time of year, those moments leading to its epitome, its peak; holding hands to heart, no greater terror, aloft a sensation, hoping for goodness. In taking such rain, pluvial reality, blessed and cursed, kneading existence. In life, we change places, today it’s my turn, tomorrow it’s another’s churn. To experience undercurrents, to feel something is normal, creating remedies, moving into somber motion. To adore experience, to see smiles, catching glances, unspoken understanding … in knowing children graduate and become adults.
