A Thought on Benelovent Pockets*

*21.9.12 I don't proof read or reread all that often. Benevolent, right, there is no spell check for the titles. Now you know, I spell by memorization of a visual pattern. I am deciding to incorporate benelovent into the lexicon. Definition to follow in future days.

I had an emergency bag (pants, swimsuit, soap, underware, toothbrush, sweater) packed into the back of Sparkey, my once functional 1985 300D Mercedes. As the months since may have rolled by I've been removing the items one at a time.

The blanket helped put out a road fire off Dry Creek; the sweater pulled hastily out one mid-cigarette mid-conversation evening: reception out here is a patchwork of towers and networks lose signal constantly, I've found if I want to talk I have to remain stationary--The sweater kept me in our conversation, I don't know if you remember talking that night, but we did.

The pants and swimsuit though. The sat wrapped in a cotton grocery sack this whole summer, forgotten scraps of fabric that once helped hold memories against my skin. I pulled the bag out of the trunk saturday afternoon looking for the bikini (not that I belong anywhere near a bikini at this point in time, that's neither here nor there) I packed down to san francisco but never wore.

I pulled my purple jeans out of the bag sad at being last chosen they grumbled over my ankles and wept over my thighs. On they fit right, which means I must be a healthy weight, somewhere that makes people think I look okay but makes me feel stuffed, thick, heavy limbed. The scale says 115. I call bullshit on it and use the dumbbells to double check it for accuracy. Forty pounds of dumbbells registers as forty pounds on the scale. I remain incredulous and portly.

The purple pants know and they don't lie.

I slid into them and buttoned my shirt, the mirror glances back at me and my reflection seems presentable. First inspection passed. My eye lingers on my reflection's right hip. The key pocket has a bulge. The small vial of Russian Caravan Tea perfume that is my favorite perfume of all time presents itself. A gift from Chaya of the past to Chaya today: here is one of your favorite things, I love you. From, Chaya Lovingly. That's what the note would read, if I'd written one.

Now today I don't know so much about anything, but I know that this bottle of perfume was considered long gone and I'd gone as far as to forget the pants ever belonged to me. Somehow in all of this I feel a mild sense of redemption and maybe even a little spark for a more hopeful tomorrow.