This was no casual request.
This was a test of all time, of endurance, of proximity.
I am fluid. Fluid cannot pass tests, cannot endure. Mary Oliver says the nature of water is that it wants to be somewhere else. I am somewhere else; therefore, I cannot answer the door. I cannot respond to you. I move away, quickly and with confidence, intact. I arrive at another place.
My sides hold me up. My sides are impenetrable; they are stalwart, I want to say, but that is not the right word.
I look up the definition of stalwart. Loyal, reliable, and hardworking. That which holds me up is loyal, reliable, and hardworking.
It is the right word. I must trust myself to know what is right, even if the intellectual capacity I have is slower than instinct, and often at odds, seemingly.
There is another sound at the door. I want to become solid so I can walk over to the door and answer it. Instead, I vaporize and drift away on the wake of air formed by the act of dissolving. I flow through the window. I am inhaled by birds, quickly, and by leaves, slowly. The neighbors are screaming and I enter their lungs on the very next breath, right after the sound fades. I become part of them and then leave. They don't notice me. I ride invisible on their currents of gasps and coughs.
I am coursing. I am dripping. I am somewhere else.