Liminal Space

You pulled this photo from your pocket, not much more than a postage stamp, and the colours all washed out or burnt away, it was hard to tell which until you actually touched it, felt the risen river water clinging to its back. We were living under tarpaulins, our bed built on racks of scavenged poplar to keep it off the ground, a shopping bag with a couple of gone-soft oranges, and a letter from social demanding a permanent address. The sun, you said, would make things better soon enough, not to fret, but this was early January and the sun was still a weak son of a gun. You remembered how we’d gathered on this lane between garages, slept in a couple of them. You said to look at it, it was a goddamn liminal space we were in, riffing on a notion you kept among your things like secret cash. Look at it again, you insisted, we’re goddamn border guards. And you know what, Sal? A couple of seconds earlier we stood over that puddle, you and me, and your face swam up to the surface and I could have cried you were so damn lovely. Still are, of course, you said, nudging my boot and just about smiling, though some of our circumstances sure have changed.