If certainty had a shape, what would it be?
I want to take Abby on the subway, but she is too big for a carrier. I wonder if I can register her as a helper dog of sorts. I google emotional support animal. I know, however, that she's not a very emotionally supportive animal. I wonder if she could be if I could just get her on the A train. Or the LIRR out to Long Beach. Or a bus to godknowswhere. Just so we can get the hell out of Harlem. I believe my anxiety would decrease if I could just take her places.
I imagine us standing on the subway platform. Would the monstrous clanking of an approaching express train give her anxiety? Would the screeching, rusty brakes burst her tiny eardrums?
As I'm writing, she sleeps in the hallway. She breathes, she twitches; she barks softly at other dogs that run along the edges of her dreams.
I read on. I discover that only service dogs are allowed on buses and subways. I am suddenly back with my restlessness. The walls of Harlem are closing in; I wonder if I will be contained here forever.
Last week I read a startling sentence written by someone wise—Mary Oliver maybe—"as the margins of the world close in, the world itself becomes more luminous."
Outside my window, the loose golden leaves fall in sequence. Every once in a while, a gust of December wind blows them right back up into the sky where they no longer belong.