May 4, 2016

The End

One begins a story only to realize that one has
in fact jumped to the middle, and suddenly feels
obliged to begin, once again, at the beginning,
but this time, at the very, very beginning—freshly
laundered bed sheets that have yet to fall victim to
the weight of an exhausted worker or lovers who
have not touched the familiar surface of each other’s
skin for seven nights in a row—before being hit
by the reality that even that is not the true beginning,
for the sheets were dirty before they were clean
and long before that, they were lumps of cotton—
at which point one is forced to consider the other
beginnings: the beginning of the worker’s day,
the couple’s first rendezvous, their respective
days of birth and so on and so forth and one can do
nothing but cry over the impossibility of beginning
a story and the inevitability of wanting to try anyway.