The Unfastening

As the father turns away from the thought of his failure, the hands remove his glasses and rub his eyes over and over, drying the nonexistent tears. Unknown to the one who is troubled about losing his hair, his fingers stroke his baldness as he speaks. The body, our constant companion, understands the loneliness of the hostess in her dark driveway, embracing herself after the guests who promised more and soon have gone, and even visits the old schoolteacher who reads the same happy ending to each new class, working her toes in her shoes. How could the people of the kingdom not have known the curse of sorrow was nothing more than a long sleep they had only to wake from? In dreams the body, which longs for transformation too, suddenly lifts us above the dark roofs of our houses, and far above the streets of the town, until they seem like any other small things fastened to earth.