by Elizabeth Langemak
Terry Gross asks another young thinker if she has regrets and when the woman answers you say, All of these people are liars. We are driving again, and shadows of trees paint us
shaded then sunned. Regret lives like a hole under most people’s feet and they move within it
even when they think they are stepping around. This morning, I was teaching a class on mushrooms and their invisible roots. We call them mycelium and they float beneath us like buried clouds of uncarded wool,
acres of strands so sheer no harpist could play them and we cannot pull them apart any more than we could render a drop of thin rain from a mist. Between you and me, under the skin of our love, is a landscape
thumped through with regret, like irregular heartbeats strung through our happiness and the world is like this, and lives are like this, and I would not lie about this
but I suppose it is not Terry’s business. What I want, you are saying, is for one person to say yes, but I wonder if it matters. I wonder if we could comb her yes from her no if she did.
|Elizabeth Langemak lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.|