It is 1 day after the last day, but there is no last day, only, as the mathematicians say, the Lemniscate, the circular 8, fallen to its side, inescapable infinity.
And on the 1st day, which was 2 days before the final day of 2000,
they made love
almost before they met.
She, the seducer, because he was the 1st man, and then, somehow, the last man,
(marriage is contradiction to the pencil point of infinite regress)
in an abacus of men she thought worthy of capture.
They were 1, and then, logically, painfully, 2.
So she tugged the dangerous curve of
back to the steady road of 1,
and they married.
She, the wizard of increase,
he, the patient accountant,
never quite able to catch
1 became 2,
but the 2 died
at 9 weeks,
and her heart threatened
to make them only 1/2.
1 again became 2, but no! After 6 weeks, the discovery of another was made,
and so 1 became 3, 2 boys of = DNA. But upon their glorious 6 month birthday, they, too, died, and so 3 became 1 once again, but the part of the 1 carrying the 2 began to curl into a 0, so despondent was she.
In the 6th month of the year 2007, 1 (the 2 of them hardly conjoined anymore, except, perhaps, at the wide base) finally became 2 for the 3rd time, and he was born on the 28th day of a late winter month.
18 months slid down, or over, the slipstream of love, marriage, time,
and 1 girl came to them, and then they possessed, for a brief handful of happy years, what every symbol loves: mirrored symmetry.
As in all good fairytales or equations that cannot be solved, even on a scroll that has
and no beginning,
the mirror contained a crack, a flaw, a number overlooked.
She saw it, but did not see how
the mirror would shatter, and turn her mind to bloody ribbons –
she reached through the singularly complete reflection, over and over
and over again,
rather like a tall autistic child counting out her secrets in a corner of a lonely room.
She almost died, her mind decayed, and somehow out of the rotting
less than 0
issued forth 1 child of complete and total perfection. Check. Mate. In 9 months of play. In the sheering of her brain,
the child’s mother had granted every perfect wish:
3 great intelligence
4 the will and charisma of a queen
Love was a flood, swollen and rushing madly from her breast, her heart, the ruin of her brain.
The ruin was patched by:
12 months of therapy
200$ dollars every 60 minutes
1 quieting yellow pill
1 mellowing pink pill
3 astonishing red pills, that plugged the holes, and did a little extra on the side.
1/3 heart/brain surgeon
1/3 contractor (body, soul, brain, no job too small or big)
1/3 drug dealer, and you are lucky if you get a good 1. She did.
It is known, now, that if enough atoms are
then the chain reaction that results makes everything else,
as those who leave like to say,
“too little too late”
The story became a skipping record
and love, which all sadhus say is
does have an expiry date after all.
Mine was Solstice, 2017,
21 days into June,
450 days, give or take a 10 or 2, past the smoldering chain reaction
that even practiced habit cannot bury forever.
5 Children, 3 Living
1 little embryo
4,000 Days of Love
4,001 Days of Fights
You do the math.
— for Alexander, the love of this life, and probably all the others too.
May you find great joy tremendous peace and exquisite love in whatever number of days come after The End of these, Our Days.