Wanted
There I was. On the wall. Not like the Handmaid’s Tale. Thank God. It was me but it wasn’t me. It said I was wanted. Funny, I hadn’t felt wanted in quite some time. Ironically I was pictured the way I looked the last time I felt truly wanted, at least wanted by a man. I was younger. Less sure of myself. Louder. Quieter. More confused. More determined. My vibration was fast enough to send some people speed-walking in the other direction. People thought I had a lot of energy now. They didn’t know how much I used to have. There was a woman once at the college where I taught that said it was more difficult to get old if you had been beautiful when you were young. It was a sly way to pay herself a compliment she no longer got to hear. Meanwhile, no one would recognize me, the me standing in front of the poster, as the person pictured on the poster. Why don’t these damn posters say why you’re wanted. I wanted myself too. Thing is I’ve found myself. That’s part of the beauty of getting older. Or at least it can be. I don’t give a good god damn who wants me these days. I feel desirable. I feel effortless. I feel muddy and dirty and as if I have huge hairy roots I can pull up like octopus tentacles and take with me. Wherever I go. I don’t even know where I want to go. I mean I’m happy right here. Right now. Where I am. Who the hell knows if I’ll stay here. I don’t. I don’t need to though. Right now is good. Tomorrow could be sucky but that’s the way life is. Up and down. Down and up. My dad used to say that everyone gets joy and sorrow. Some of us just get a little more of one than the other. He struggled to feel wanted. It’s the story of every not born first Italian son. Life is suddenly more precious than it ever has been. Wait. That’s not true. I have a fuzzy memory. Like a Polaroid photo that has begun to disintegrate. My mom walked out of the kitchen. I was about one. I was holding onto the table. I wanted to get to the counter across the way so I could hold onto it and look out of the partially open door to the garage. I didn’t realize it was the garage. It was just another place making interesting sounds. I did it. I walked over there. I didn’t think about it I just did it. I just went forward. I swallowed. I ate life. I stepped into the flow. I felt that want want want. Not the kind that comes from greed but the bee to honey, the crow to carrion, the stream’s trickle to the river’s rush. The want for life, to spread my molecules with all the others. The joy. The sheer amazement at all that’s out there. I think we all had that before we had words for it. It’s the only kind of orgy I’m still interested in. Those hairy roots of mine know how to pick up the good shit as I walk through this life. I don’t know how I got this way. Some of it is probably grace. Some a booby prize for crap I’ve had to wade through or that spewed out of some angry — see scared — person in power’s mouth. Doesn’t matter anymore. They say it’s the destination not the journey but I don’t think I agree. For me it’s more of a string of destinations. Like beads on a string. One of those red strings that connects us to each other. And not worry beads or rosary beads. Hold the whole god damn Universe inside them beads. I like this human gig. It’s not easy but it gets easier and it’s always so fucking loud, especially when it’s silent.
Cinse Bonino
2022
