Transference

Every day is different.

Transference (1963) by Leonora Carrington

The trees here stretch straight into the sky, like a ladder to the heavens, direct access to the divine — or to cold outer space, to nothingness and nowhere. Living here means looking up and remembering that you are sublime, blessed by unseen gods, but your time is finite, and the universe is infinite and indifferent — even to the gods, even to the sublime.

The sun here hides behind the horizon, intent on a slow reveal, determined to hold you in suspense. It’s easier to fall in love here, it’s easier to see straight into another person’s heart. They keep their hearts hidden here which only makes them easier to see. They keep themselves hidden which means that every passing remark is a confession, every sigh a plea.

And when you tell them there’s no time to hesitate, everyone agrees. They can feel time slipping through their fingers here, they don’t believe that they’ll live forever like the people do out West, where the sun never leaves you alone, where the universe is easy to forget, where every day is the same, you look the same, you feel the same, until one day you unexpectedly disappear, no suspense, no slow reveal, no moral, you lose.

No one wins here. If you say you’re winning people smile at you like bless your heart. If you say you’re losing they hold your hand. No one loses here. There are tall trees everywhere, gesturing at heaven, impossible to ignore, waving their branches frantically, or standing still, arms raised to salute the hidden stars, to honor the infinite, mad respect for indifference. In that frigid darkness, apathy makes perfect sense. But down here, on this bright planet, in the shadows of these towering trees?

The ground here is cold under the pine needles, but warmer under that, and warmer and warmer still. Palms to the earth, every day is different, it’s impossible to forget: Your mother loved you. Do you remember how she held you to her chest and murmured? The creaking porch chair, the warm June breeze, the cicadas and frogs in the trees, singing in your honor, fireflies rising up from the wet grass, suspense building to the crescendo of twilight, just another minute of this sweetness, just another second of this glow.

It’s too easy to fall in love here. It’s too easy to see the end coming, to miss the frogs in November, to miss the cicadas in December, to wonder what you did wrong, to hide your heart. It’s too hard to forget. These trees won’t let you.

So don’t forget. One more minute on this bright planet, one more second with your father singing Billie Holiday, sad and lost, drunk and happy, sad and happy and drunk and lost — lost but never hidden, every remark a confession, every sigh a plea, heart like a drumbeat, impossible to ignore, always singing in your honor, always seeing the end coming, falling in slow motion, suspense building to the crescendo of death, sublime.

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Thanks for reading Ask Molly.