i. impossible she told you that you are clotted in stardust. born of space-shards and ultraviolet fuse. bathed in strings of syrup slithering criss-cross through the coils of your curls: moonlight.
she told you that your feet are thicker than salmon-skin. plump and thick with oil and grease. gravel crumbling to the crevices of your heels as they dance through the dust. gills writhing with purple.
she told you that your hands are the world. layers upon layers of raindrops flakes, zephyrs whispering past your worn palms, sprouting swirls of water. she told you that your fingertips spew words.
ii. dodhéanta he told you to split butter with olive oil. be sure to use both, both, and plops halibut into stainless-steel. both, and sprinkles lemon-pepper back and forth, sizzling black and gold and white, steam wisping through the air, cuffing to your wrists tighter than the vacuum seal.
he told you to grasp your hands to the fishing-pole, ingrain them to the plastic, lips of chipped-paint cracking the surface. clench the pole and reel the string toward you, he says, saltwater dripping from his veins, navy strung to the dock.
he told you to close your eyes. close your eyes and imagine that you are lighter than the soy-sauce that splatters your dinner plate. imagine that you can see the tip of Russia though the sea stretches long and murky, coated in clumps of wasabi. close your eyes.
iii. nemožné she told you that you are tethered to a strand of knowledge, though you aren't sure why. that you are bound to something deeper and creamier than the mugs of frothed dark-chocolate wisped to your nose.
she told you that you crave information more than the plates of food that dot your table -- a melting-pot of dishes that bind who you are. salmon and seaweed and slivers of halibut, cabbage and corn-beef, and the jaternice that you swipe to the side, thick slices of aged-cheese and too-ripe mango.
she told you to be still. that you won't always know why.
why the world works the way it does --
why some things are impossible and while others aren't.
because maybe it isn't a coincidence, maybe it isn't impossible that we live on the only known planet that supports life, a planet perfectly positioned from the sun's showering rays, dipped in pools of cerulean and blooms of emerald. maybe we won't always know why --
but perhaps someday
This is told through three different stories of things different family members/friends said to me. Each heading is a variation of the word impossible.