The Breathturn

You told me the street was straight. You told me the card was the right card. You told me the crowd would part for us - for us, you said, and the "us" was the credo I swallowed whole, the way I swallowed everything you said for six years on the third floor of the building that smelled like your cologne and the copy machine and the floor polish that burned if you breathed too deep.

I believed you. That was the credo. That was the blade you handed me handle-first and I took it handle-first and I cut myself on every street you sent me down and I came back and said I'm fine and you said good, and the good was the credo and the credo was the blade.

The crowd was not hostile. The crowd was your crowd - the one you built from six years of people who said yes the way I said yes, the way Maria said yes on the fourth floor until she stopped coming in and nobody said her name and I didn't say her name either because the not-saying was the credo and the credo was the blade.

The crowd was not a texture. The crowd was Maria on the fourth floor who stopped coming in. The crowd was James on the second floor who coughed all through February and you said he'd be fine. The crowd was the woman on the stair - her name is Ruth - who said the air smelled different on the third floor and I said what does it smell like and she said like someone cooking for more than one and I kept walking. I kept walking past Ruth. I kept walking past James. I kept walking past the space where Maria stopped coming in. The walking was the credo. The credo was the blade. The blade was the thing I carried for you and the carrying was the debt I owe them.

Six years. The past is not behind me. The past is the floor I'm standing on. The past is the polish that burns if you breathe too deep. The past is Maria's empty desk and James's cough and Ruth's question I walked past and I believed you when you said I would arrive.

I believed you.

And here the breath turns.

Not because you lied - you didn't lie, you believed the credo too, the way the credo believes itself, sincerely, until the foundation is the thing that's missing.

The breath turns because of Ruth. Because last Tuesday she knocked on my door - not the stair, my door - and said you look like you're carrying something and I said I'm fine and she said no you're not and that was the first time in six years anyone in your building said no you're not to me and the "no you're not" was the breathturn and the breathturn was the hand opening and the hand was holding the blade and the blade was the credo and the credo was yours, not mine.

I give the blade back. Not to you - you don't need it, you have others. I give it to Ruth, who said no you're not. I give it to James, who coughed through February. I give it to Maria, who stopped coming in and nobody said her name.

I say her name. Maria. I say his name. James. I say her name. Ruth.

The hand opens. The blade is given. Not forgiven. Given. The debt is not paid and not forgotten - it's the thing I carry now instead of the credo, and the carrying is different, and the difference is the breathturn.