T
here's a block-and-a-half between my mother's house and the corner store. Whenever the family sweeps in and gathers together under her low ceilings, we inevitably find that we didn't buy enough beer or enough cigarettes. If we're lucky, we find out before the corner store closes.
So someone has to volunteer. It's rarely a pleasant stroll under a moderate sun; it's nearly always night; the weather is often inclement; the volunteer is probably not perfectly sober. But I cherish that block-and-a-half run in a way that's not easy to explain.
The walk makes me feel, every time, like I'm trying to squeeze eternity into a bottle. Every single time I make that walk, I think about what it means to be in this in-between space, which will not last long, but still requires endurance. I think about moments lasting for all time, about what it would feel like to walk to the store forever. I think about the cathedral sky, often enough descending indifferently upon me. I try to hold my life in my hands, and imagine what it would be like to die then and there, struck by a drunk driver, perhaps, while I dodge around a poorly parked car.
I get these feelings from time to time in other contexts, but never so consistently as on that slight incline, shoving through decaying, chintzy houses, as the sidewalk cuts in and out like radio in the countryside. I feel at the mercy of the Lord; but I'm always grinning, and feeling a little sick.