more than seven

If I stand naked in the snow, holding a deer skull to obscure my face, can I change the laws of physics?

It’s been seven weeks since the accident. Seven, a number some believe to be mystical, to be endowed with certain magical properties. I thought it better to grieve alone. I thought it more than seven times, more than seven times seven.

The sun doesn’t always rise in the east. It only does so twice a year. On all other days, the position where it rises will be either northward or southward to the exact east. The axis of earth's rotation is not perpendicular to the plane in which it revolves around the sun. There is nothing true to mark the days. Is this why we felt the need to invent ritual? I picture you laughing.

If I stand naked in front of a bonfire, holding a chalice between my breasts, can I change the laws of physics?

You hated candles. You said: We have modern technology. We have electricity. When I argued that sometimes the power goes out, you answered that it didn’t matter, it always comes back on eventually. Go to bed early or read by natural light. Candles smell. Candles give off smoke, faint though it may be. The smell of burning made you ill. We never had a grill, even a small one. You were worried it would make you vomit. I guess I can eat all the grilled meats I want now, but I’m rarely hungry.

It was never romantic. But it was comforting.

To be clear, I don’t believe in the mystical power of numbers. Numbers are numbers. They need not be draped in cloaks and given purple wizard hats. Writing them on paper and burning them in the candle flame leads to ash, not insight. Not magic. I haven’t changed my underlying beliefs. I just count things more often. It’s not romantic, but sometimes it’s comforting.

If naked I kneel before an old oak tree, holding the guts of a slain elk in my hands, can I change the laws of physics?

The first thing I did was donate all your clothes. I did not wait. After all, what good would they do me? We are different sizes. I dumped your toiletries and shredded everything that had your handwriting, save the legal documents required. I paid a sketchy PC repair shop to wipe and destroy your hard drive. I don’t know if they did or not; I let them keep the computer. There’s nothing on there that belongs to me. We don’t exist anymore.

I can’t afford to move. It’s a good thing I don’t believe in ghosts. You made jokes about warm beer and cold women. I never told you how much I hated beer. What a waste of words that conversation would have been. We were a good arrangement while we lasted. I’m trying to be practical about it. You wouldn’t want to see me twist in the wind.

If naked I lay on a slab, holding the darkness in my open mouth, can the laws of physics cease to matter?