Brandel France de Bravo

Words for God

Walking down 14th Street to Trader Joe’s, I pretend

I’m Oprah. I look into the eyes of the hurried passersby

and point at each with my billion-dollar mind, “You get

to die! You get to die, and you get to die!” I’m super

excited. Leaking a secret, sudden generosity will do that.

Last year, we watched the Easter parade. No one wore

rabbit ears or pastel bonnets in this Mexican town.

The Romans’ helmets were spray-painted gold, the red

crests made from plastic brooms. The soldiers marched

solemnly in white knee socks and black gladiators, each

step a sentence ending in a period. One Roman, about

my age, fell right in front of us, and we thought it was

pageantry, until a crowd crouched around him, loosening

his robe, breastplate as he lay on the cobblestone street.

My age means that when we talk, I’ll forget the band’s

name but not their most famous album, 69 Love Songs,

and that stairs are my religion. He died in the ambulance

on the way to the hospital. We read about it on Facebook.

Should I upload this? I wonder as I scroll through the attic

in my phone. So many pictures just of words I want

to remember: book titles, museum captions, art. “Once

you’ve gotten the message, hang up the phone” is from

Laurie Anderson’s exhibit, The Weather. Also, “They say

you die three times. First, when your heart stops. Second,

when they put you in the ground. Third, the last time someone

says your name.” Facebook mentioned the Roman by name.

I didn’t take a screenshot. Oh, yeah: The Magnetic Fields.

In the Rothko Room, I turn around slowly to take in all four

paintings, one per wall, and think of water, how a single

molecule of H2O has no wetness, how no color is an island.

The orange is alive because the red keeps speaking its name.