Anabell Donovan (Anna Eusthacia) is a psychologist and educator dedicated to the student success of minorities and under-represented individuals. She loves words and would always like to “start where language ends.”
This hill country girl had sun tea eyes and smiles, bright as miles of wildflowers on the side of the highway. She was soft blue bonnets, faint verbena violets, and the red and yellow speckles of Indian blankets. She moved to the tempo of a stroll through rolling hills, at impromptu meetings in the hallway, pickup b-ball games, traffic tickets, and Sonic drive throughs. We basked in her untainted glow, unique empath whose core was joy, and whose speech was warm with Southern charm. She knew my brokenness when my mom passed away, and walked me back into the flow of every day after every day just by being a friend. "She transitioned," they said, so sterile a word to carefully pat a light so bright snuffed out by senseless Covid and will you smooth out with your lingo the many landscapes darkened by loss? There's a flood of tears, carefully boarded up by denial. I am the hidden sullen who weeps within.
There were random paw prints on cement leading to the door of the pool hall, and urine, weed, and stale beer wafted as we passed by. We shared a walkman, and Coltrane wails, smoked weed on street corners as we walked down to the lake past the mossy fountains in the park, he closer to the street, me grazing his shoulder. He stalked dice and cards, I crouched and leaned into our kindred static cling, girded in random insurgency, pack of two, ears back, a breath from howling at an ever-present moon. We trained his Betta fish at the shallow end of his uncle's pool, waded and held mirrors and the Betta flared with every scale and fin, gearing for a fight as we cheered and steered the mirrors. His spirit, sturdy vines to my climbing roses, yet rippled want clouded his eyes in delinquent dyes, he always wanted and wanted more. We parted in the relentless ways of changing powers, dictatorship, revolution, dictatorship, some things remain the same. I wonder if the random paw prints on cement are still there and if he'd go for a walk with me.
Irving Reporting this Morning
I awaken to calls from a distressed bird flying round a treetop, for the sky is distended, and the worms are hidden deep in cool mud. The air is stifled, like a scolded child, who shuffles in the courtyard, delaying going home. She pokes the ant hill under the mimosa tree, kicks the loose boards on the faded fence with careless boredom. I hum to Mac's Blue World and there's a lilt to my step, a flitting of buttergly wings, a hint of a smile on my drawn face. An old man walks through the courtyard and goes on about Al Green and hurricanes to passersby, but no one listens, then shuffles off to get another beer and update his playlist. On my walk, I see sewage flowing down the street and it's a good thing the wind is not blowing as no one is doing anything about it. The city's policy is to never take calls. And we spring forward as if we could change the face of time by moving its hands. Just so a man now long gone could have an extra hour of sunshine to go bug hunting in the summer. "My mind, it goes, it goes It goes, it goes, it goes..."