Mabel parks behind a long line of vehicles on the road’s shoulder, grabs her camera from the passenger seat, and starts walking towards Peter’s house. Only a mile out of town, yet rural, she can hear chickens somewhere nearby. Peter had written on the invite: take the dirt road ¼ mile in, then make a left at the llamas, and Mabel thought then- that line should show up in a poem sometime. And it will, years later when she reconstructs this day, one of Peter’s last. And there they were, two llamas, recently shaved with only curly tufts remaining on the tops of their heads. She photographs them, their big eyes blinking slowly. A little further up, a scrawled sign on a tree reads: Poetry This Way. She photographs that too. Then the house comes into view.
It’s low, wooden, surrounded by trees, and dangling grape vines. A gravel path bends around the porch. Outside, about 25 people are already milling around, chatting with one another or seated on the folding chairs in the dirt yard. Someone is playing guitar. Mabel sees Maria and Jerry, waves. Same with Anita and Bruce. She sees a couple of people from local publishing- editors, maybe. She turns and finds her friend Carol coming up the path behind her, wrapped in a long red shawl and wearing high heels. Carol reaches down to wipe at her shoes. This dust! She mutters. Mabel photographs her, foot lifted, an elegant stork.
Mabel recognizes enough people to feel comfortable. It’s a publication party for Peter’s book- where is he? She hasn’t seen him yet- and it is also the day of Venus Transit, June 6, 2012, where the planet passes across the face of the sun. Peter has it all planned out.
Mabel enters the home through the back door, directly into the kitchen. It is a bustle of activity, people cutting vegetables and washing plates. Someone hands her a glass of wine. Just what I need, she smiles. And she continues into the living area. The house seems to radiate rooms, Chloe’s bold artwork leaning against the walls, saffron fabric diffusing the light, incense burning.
Oh, there he is. Peter is standing at the head of a large table, his red hair falling into his face. In his 60s but he still moves like a boy, lean and agile. Tall of course, always taller than everyone. He looks up and flashes Mabel a grin. You’re documenting this, right? he asks, pointing at the camera. Yes, she nods, and photographs him, another bright smile.
Lovely Chloe, Peter’s partner, is hovering near the table, lighting candles. Mabel has a sudden memory of a dream, maybe a recurring dream, with groups of people seated at banquet tables, and the realization in the dream that the people are no longer living. Chloe holds a candelabra up to her face and talks like vampire. I vant to suck your blood. Another photo.
Watching Peter, Mabel recollects his writing workshops in the back room of the library, the surprising energy he put into his suggestions, the way he would throw a printed poem into the air when he approved. Bravo! Once when she complained about being stuck, not able to get going, he scowled and said, just jump in, both feet, and worry later. And it worked. In medias res. In the midst of things. It’s how she feels whenever she sees Peter, as if he is in a current state of now, like the present tense is a cloud that he pulls along with him.
People are getting food from the table, moving back outdoors. There are more of them now, the dusty yard crowded, the conversation vibrant. Mabel sits with Carol, and takes photos from her chair. She can feel the energy rising, music escalating. Suzy has set up a crazy contraption for people to view Venus Transit and they wait their turns, wearing paper sunglasses. Two puppies from the house next door have sneaked into the yard and are tumbling with each other, grabbing food off plates. One photo after another. Every shot freezing a moment. In medias res.
Fairy lights are turned on and Peter strides out wearing a top hat. As if you aren’t tall enough, someone yells, and he bows, opening his book. Silence, the white lights twinkling between the leaves. He begins to read.
Mabel wonders how she’ll look back on this day, a day where time seems to hover, to pause and hold still. Later she’ll write lines that begin:
In this poem, there is no past, no future, only an eternal now.
Did Peter know how few days he had remaining? Was this all part of his goodbye? That wouldn’t surprise her.
But she will not think about that until later. She pulls herself back into the moment. It is still warm, sky starting to deepen, Peter standing in a midpoint, his words radiating over the crowd. They are somewhere between heaven and earth, a banquette table shared by the dead and the living. Past, future, then, now. In medias res.
Published in Threshold 2026