Americana Stories—Nonfiction

Revel—Nonfiction by Angela Townsend

On days that shine, my eyes are open.

I am still blinking, adjusting to the light that does not seem to be going anywhere. It’s not that I expected it to abandon me, yet here I am, surprised by its extended stay.

I’ve long dredged the day for something that shimmers, an incorrigible optimist even when afraid. But age and mercy change your sight, and my eyes grow reckless with visions.

My ex-husband accused me of overstating my epiphanies, prone like a dimwit to revelations everywhere. He did not say dimwit—a word both hilarious and unusably mean—but he lived it in my direction. V— wanted to buy me designer sunglasses to shield my eyes. If serendipity appeared everywhere, clearly I lived behind lying lenses.

“I’ve long dredged the day for something that shimmers,
an incorrigible optimist even when afraid.”

I have donated the sunglasses to Goodwill. I have resumed rifling August hours for revelation, riffing off God’s jam sessions even in traffic.

If my eyes were protected, I would never have noticed the dozen potbellied men playing bongos on the sidewalk. Old enough to be grandfathers, clad in flannels and golf shirts and—surely the universe would implode if this were not the case—at least one Grateful Dead T-shirt, they formed a feckless circle, drumming mirth for the earth.

I beheld the bongo boys at the longest stoplight in town, and I will hold them in my heart as long as I ride. They were elderly imps, the beat that goes on, communion with comedy, and the cosmos itself. As the light turned green, I decided the Grateful one was named Huey Huggins. I made myself laugh. God made me laugh.

God, I am convinced, made this entire town, a revelation of what happens when happiness is mayor. I could drive home a different way and arrive twenty minutes sooner, but I was given those twenty minutes for this detour.

My long ride exasperated V—, who championed the highway. “You and my Mom, always driving back roads. You’ve both had tire problems. Me and my Dad never do.”

But I persisted, soothed by streets wreathed with rainbows, eyes wide for the warm and weird. People danced at random and rode unicycles. Santa Claus might be seen in April. Everything smelled garlicky. Dragon boats darted down the river. I once saw the governor eating a chicken sandwich with great haste.

Stopping for gas might turn up the mercy. The red squirrel of a fuel attendant asked about my day and informed me that my blouse reminded him of roses drifting through blue sky. We talked about flowers until my Subaru was fed.

The town filled my teacups and cleared my eyes of tears for twenty minutes a day. On the nights that didn’t shine, my retinas remembered the rainbows. I remained alive, the most rebellious revelation.

When the earthquake epiphany came, my dimwit eyes blinked hard. The blackness I feared became the clearing of my sight. Serendipities pounced on me like puppies.

Every town could be my town. Every hour could be my epiphany. Every robin and ravioli and rumpled bongo boy was my revelation.

“With apologies to everyone who loves me, I do not expect to stop talking about flowers and miracles.”

I need the kaleidoscope town less now, yet I love it more. I love everything more. Huey Hugginses are everywhere, and I intend to wrap my arms around my life like a rainbow.

With apologies to everyone who loves me, I do not expect to stop talking about flowers and miracles. I see so many astonishments, I keep notebooks everywhere to capture them in champagne flutes. I can no more capture them than caution can capture me.

The days keep shining, and I keep squinting. Live like this and you’ll get crow’s feet before your time, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. Let my face and my faith tell the story of full sun. I expect the zest in all my comings and goings. Every light is green when I am free to love it all.

I am excited every morning. There will be epiphanies today.

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