Crooked Fool: How an artist survives the end of the world

In the morning before first light, they kneaded the covers with their legs, freeing themselves to roll onto the floor with gentle sureness. Eyes still closed, they rolled their body around on the cool wood, bending into joints, slip-sliding around, rolling over themselves, dancing horizontally until they felt stretched, released, ready to adapt and mold to whatever came their way. Then they finally blinked their eyes open, the rolling and stretching having worn the sleep away. They rose to their feet and walked downstairs. In the kitchen, they put on a pot of coffee and their favorite music. They hummed and half-danced until they could pour the black liquid into a mug, adding plenty of milk and some hot chocolate mix, because they damn well weren’t going to miss out on the sweetness. Cup in hand, still taking piping hot sips, they clumsily wrapped themselves in a thick blanket and stumbled down the stairs to the basement. By now, they could hear footsteps above them as the rest of the household started to stir. They knelt on concrete in front of a makeshift altar and just stared, breath suspended, cup clenched in hand. Then breath drew in ragged and ribs expanded again. Life filled body. Grief sighed out. Eyes glided and stopped on a photograph, then another, and another. Somehow each person on that altar was everywhere while simultaneously being wholly gone. A bow of the head. A lump in the throat. A zing of caffeine in the fingertips. And the day begins. They dress in their favorites because they can. In a bit their chosen family will pile into their living room to share food. And while they claim joy in sustenance, they will plan their survival, their safety, their freedom. And then they will take to the streets, maybe quietly, maybe screaming to be heard. Both can be dangerous. And after a day of reclaiming their place, and even if they lose another, even if they are bruised and bloodied, they will gather in yet another house to dance, talk, cry, and tell stories until their bodies tire out. More food will be shared. Maybe they’ll go home to their sanctuary. Maybe they’ll slide down and curl up where they are, in community, insisting on survival again.