Friday, April 24, 2015

Essence

She wants me to love her as she loved her mother. She wants me to devote myself to her as she devoted herself to her mother. I loved my mother, she says. Sweet, dear mother, she says. That, I want to say, is the issue at hand. Your mother, who died before I was born, was sweet, or so you remember her to be. I have no personal confirmation of this character description. But I believe that your mother held the succulent nectar of sugar. You describe another mother, not mine, I want to say. So much I want to say that's not sweet or dear. Your mother, not mine, so sweet and not here.

Nothing Said

In the hospital for treatment of some sort of acute leukemia, my father watches Monday night football. His heart stops during the game. An alarm sounds. My mom and I walk down the hall to his room. Recent on scene, we see a blue light outside his door before we see him. A nurse grabs my arm. This way, she says, and takes me towards a waiting area. I want to be with him, I say, and pull away as a resuscitation cart rolls past. They try to start his heart. They try multiple times with different tools. No revival commences. Recently, I read that remembering the words of the dead is "at best a kind of informed storytelling." This I want not to believe because I want to hear the real words he spoke before the game. Maybe he referenced the teams. No favorite in this game. Let the underdog win. 

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Small things

Afternoon off. Hair cut. Late lunch. Find licorice mix by the pound. Refrain from advising cross dresser who's frustrated because he can't find a bra that fits (38 too tight, 39 too loose). Walk around lake.