1
1 Nightlight. Dad’s head is a cannonball poised over the pool. I’ve been asked to watch him. He’s peering down into the filter well, hands—whole body—shaking as he pulls out bits of grass. Yesterday, down at the dock, he pulled $200 out of his pocket (it took forever) and offered it to me. Earlier, he’d handed Anna a baggie full of cash. “What’s this for?” she’d asked. “You trade it for goods,” he said. And last night he shuffled out to the pump house while I was cross-legged on a chair watching the sunset. “Where’s your nightlight?” he asked. “My nightlight?” “Right there,” he said, touching one shaky finger to my third eye. Holy Moly. He’s finished with the pool filter now and hasn’t fallen in. I look away don’t look to see him crawl to the diving board, use it to get up. At least, I don’t want him to see me look, though seeing (he knows this) is the one thing he’s still teaching me to do. S. Robbins from Pilgrimage, Meditations on the Svadhisthana Chakra
Sherry Robbins 
love this so
LikeLike