Slow. I’m moving slowly. Slower every day. I catch myself going too fast and I say to myself, like the bunny in the back of the car meme “slow the fuck down!” so I move slower. Slow, slowly, and then slower.
I catch my steps, my physical steps. “Slow down” I say to myself. The fly, though, the fly keeps flying.
The fly has been here for days. It buzzes by, a house fly, one of those big ones from my childhood. And it reminds me.
It reminds me of sadness and hoards. It reminds me of fear of velvet deer paintings at the end of the hall and glass that I step on, only to bleed and examine, with fascination, the clots.
The fly knows. Still, I move slow, counting my steps, every step with intention. The fly flies, every beat of its wings with intention, I wonder? How much does the fly know?