And then it’s morning a Sunday and it’s raining.  A cold March a late March in a year for an early Easter a wind bringing rain after some warm days a foreshadowing taken away Dulcinea and her lover wearing the clothes they went to bed in at a kitchen table a window over the sink a natural light in an otherwise dark room but no voice there not her father’s voice nor her own nor one muted in empathy the child still asleep still dreaming just the steady sound of water pouring down gutters and the weather does not judge itself Dulcinea’s hands cupping her coffee mug one leg under her as she sits and her eyes have that morning look of being awake and no fear of being naked how fearing God is freedom how even if you do this or do that the good deed with evil on your mind the bad things you did for love the increment of time between the doing and not doing how it must have a time a start and finish implanted in our routines if it is to be a routine at all  (the lover slouched in a bad posture across from her (Dulcinea) as across from a wall a game inside himself you shouldn’t even try saying:  Go on.  Tell me.  Let me read it again the hearing and the doing how God is in all of it all the doings going on at this time or that in all that we hear in all of our experience how you learn to read a clock depending on where you are by the light you see or do not see God is glorified even in what happened after the letter after Maddie read it written in the longhand of David’s ex-wife (your mother) and it’s like not being judged…) like in some book like it has to have a start and finish something happening something doing in the instant you close the circuit and connect—a memory in a moment like how Dulcinea sees it in a moment looking into his (her lover’s) eyes a door to when she was three her grandfather David’s father looking for her but as a game after he counted she in her Sunday dress her Easter dress and they are outside in the sun the eggs all found in the tall green grass as yet un-mowed the colored ones he’d hidden for after church the formal creases of that too his church clothes even as he covers his eyes and crouches she giggling to the game the hide and go seek game of seeking and being found:  a story—the peace that whether it’s finished or not if it hasn’t even begun do it and let it be done knowing there is an author and a finisher to which even the demons tremble and her eyes (Dulcinea) saying in their nakedness:  She (my mother) was just as much of an artist as he was and all artists are driven by demons…

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