Thursday, March 31st
It's 11:35, and I'm home from my second trip to the hospital today. I thought this evening of the time that you came with me to Washington Hospital Center, right before Thanksgiving, I think maybe 2012. I was there for a biopsy. You were there to be with me. I'd come for my biopsy straight from the Orthopedic Clinic at Children's Hospital, just a walk next door. Ben had been in the ER at Children's for 11 hours straight the day before, so I was not thinking well at my biopsy. Numb, again, as perhaps people tend to be in hospitals.
Ben was fine, in the end, as you know, although it took some time and years to get there and it was very unnerving. I went in to my biopsy, and it was only stretched out on the table with multiple needles stuck in my neck that I was able to tell the doctors that I had just gotten the diagnosis of signs of thyroid disease, not thyroid cancer. The mood of the biopsy changed. Urgency faded. One might say the doctors almost chortled.
So I was calmer when I came out of the biopsy, having heard the chortles and being stretched out thin by my eleven hours in orthopedic questions with Ben. My mind was not on cancer, dire, the biopsy result, death, cancer.
But your mind went there. I saw you look up at me when I came back to the waiting room, a big patch on my throat over my thyroid. You looked at the patch and it hurt you. You were scared, done in by the needles in such a vulnerable part of me. You got up slowly to me, eyes on the patch, all care and open concern.
I walked through it then, frightened, but brave with the chortles of thyroid disease, not cancer. But I didn't forget your face.
I saw that face tonight, over and over, surrounded by the doctors and needles of Washington Adventist Hospital. I invented lots of scenes in which I got to give that care to you. And I'm going to go to bed before they all lose their hold on my mind. I like caring for you. I don't want to stop.
11:50pm.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Thursday, March 31st
So much to say today. I've been at the hospital every day for the past week, surrounded by the kinds of people that could have helped you. This makes me numb. None of the medical people really realize this. We act like I'm there solely to take care of my mother, which is overwhelming enough. But the meaning of their abilities, their medications, their care.....it's painful. I get the sense that some of them might understand how I feel, if I were to explain it all. I think they've seen it before. The hospital is a place where anything can happen, any part of a person's life can be called up or into action.
My mother could have died. She broke her hip on Wednesday, but no one could operate to replace her hip because of the heart condition she was diagnosed with the Wednesday before that. This looked unsolvable for a few days. "Let it heal?" I asked, and they all looked at me. It won't, they said, using lots of different terms. She'll die. Everyone dies.
(Indeed. Everyone does die. Including vital handsome men in their 50s with unborn grandchildren and unmet desires to go to Paris. But I digress.)
Then all the medical people, after much rushing about and reviewing of medical records, decided that an alternate procedure that was too risky for most people was actually the best option for my 87-year-old mother. A temporary valve procedure was the thing. Not available at every hospital, but miraculously available at the small local hospital to which the ambulance had brought us last Wednesday, after my first choice hospital was full. Serendipity smiled at you, the nice man in the white coat said to me. I smiled. Wanly. Where was Miss Serendipity for you? I hate it. I can't process it. I like the nice man in the white coat, I feel that he'd like me to fill up some waiting space with pleasure, but that's not going to happen. I go to the parking lot and cry in my car instead.
So my mother is through the surgeries. Back to my small-term life of coaxing her to swallow small amounts of cream of wheat. This distracted me so much from you last summer, from the conversation I wish I'd had about where your health was really going. What if I'd brought it up, death? What if I'd somehow gotten through to you, let the true worry into my voice, let you hear how much my soul would drain out with all my worry? I got through to you, once, when you were driving someplace, without telling me when you were leaving, as usual, and I was worried, as usual, your sick self driving all around. Don't DO this to me, I'd said, and I'd felt my chains and walls fall as I spoke until everything I felt changed my voice to a wail. I don't want to worry that you're going to DIE!, the last word a cry piercing every tension between us. You heard it to your core, stopped blustering, stayed silent for a few seconds, and then told me in the same voice I imagine you use with your mother that you would call when you got there. And you did.
What if I'd gotten through to you last summer, just once? What if I had? All those doctors using all their energies and drips and medicines, all of that, some of it, on you? How could we be so disorganized?
It's 1:10pm, and I'm angry to miss you so.
So much to say today. I've been at the hospital every day for the past week, surrounded by the kinds of people that could have helped you. This makes me numb. None of the medical people really realize this. We act like I'm there solely to take care of my mother, which is overwhelming enough. But the meaning of their abilities, their medications, their care.....it's painful. I get the sense that some of them might understand how I feel, if I were to explain it all. I think they've seen it before. The hospital is a place where anything can happen, any part of a person's life can be called up or into action.
My mother could have died. She broke her hip on Wednesday, but no one could operate to replace her hip because of the heart condition she was diagnosed with the Wednesday before that. This looked unsolvable for a few days. "Let it heal?" I asked, and they all looked at me. It won't, they said, using lots of different terms. She'll die. Everyone dies.
(Indeed. Everyone does die. Including vital handsome men in their 50s with unborn grandchildren and unmet desires to go to Paris. But I digress.)
Then all the medical people, after much rushing about and reviewing of medical records, decided that an alternate procedure that was too risky for most people was actually the best option for my 87-year-old mother. A temporary valve procedure was the thing. Not available at every hospital, but miraculously available at the small local hospital to which the ambulance had brought us last Wednesday, after my first choice hospital was full. Serendipity smiled at you, the nice man in the white coat said to me. I smiled. Wanly. Where was Miss Serendipity for you? I hate it. I can't process it. I like the nice man in the white coat, I feel that he'd like me to fill up some waiting space with pleasure, but that's not going to happen. I go to the parking lot and cry in my car instead.
So my mother is through the surgeries. Back to my small-term life of coaxing her to swallow small amounts of cream of wheat. This distracted me so much from you last summer, from the conversation I wish I'd had about where your health was really going. What if I'd brought it up, death? What if I'd somehow gotten through to you, let the true worry into my voice, let you hear how much my soul would drain out with all my worry? I got through to you, once, when you were driving someplace, without telling me when you were leaving, as usual, and I was worried, as usual, your sick self driving all around. Don't DO this to me, I'd said, and I'd felt my chains and walls fall as I spoke until everything I felt changed my voice to a wail. I don't want to worry that you're going to DIE!, the last word a cry piercing every tension between us. You heard it to your core, stopped blustering, stayed silent for a few seconds, and then told me in the same voice I imagine you use with your mother that you would call when you got there. And you did.
What if I'd gotten through to you last summer, just once? What if I had? All those doctors using all their energies and drips and medicines, all of that, some of it, on you? How could we be so disorganized?
It's 1:10pm, and I'm angry to miss you so.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Saturday, March 26th.
You can tell if you love someone by how it feels to look at their childhood pictures. If you see part of yourself in the photo, you've got your answer.
Your sister sent me Easter photos from your childhood. There you are, holding up that chocolate bunny with such joy, all six years of you happy. You are eight and looking at me from your own face; you are fifteen and have almost the same mouth. In all of them you have your hands.
Happy Easter. Tomorrow I'll cry in church when anyone mentions resurrection. Please be there.
You can tell if you love someone by how it feels to look at their childhood pictures. If you see part of yourself in the photo, you've got your answer.
Your sister sent me Easter photos from your childhood. There you are, holding up that chocolate bunny with such joy, all six years of you happy. You are eight and looking at me from your own face; you are fifteen and have almost the same mouth. In all of them you have your hands.
Happy Easter. Tomorrow I'll cry in church when anyone mentions resurrection. Please be there.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Saturday, March 19th
I'd thought I was getting this crying issue under control. But I can see you looking at me over your glasses, skeptically, because you know I haven't. I just sat in the DC Basilica with tears streaming down my face. Likely not the first time it has happened in the pews, especially in those lighting candles for the dead. But I really must get ahold of myself. You nod, slowly, eyebrows lifting in humor. I HAVE, I insist, I cry about twice a day now. No more of this five-times-daily routine. You level your baby browns at me and gaze back.
Fine. We'll try something new. This is what I have to say.
1) I thought you looked so handsome in your reading glasses. A pair of your glasses, rimless silver masculine ones, sit with my sunglasses, and I imagine them on you every time I pass by. In these visions you're always wearing blue, and you're always thinking something quite intelligent. Perhaps you'd actually just be thinking that you're ready for a sandwich, but even mustard would be sexy on you in those reading glasses.
2) The trees are budding all around. There is a haze growing over the earth, twenty to fifty feet high. Each brach is becoming larger, tipped and ringed with green that can hardly be contained. Each day the view from my house is different. Life is rising here. You died when the earth was frozen and still. I'm angry for this, that this motion is in the trees, but your poor body gets none. I should stop it. Stop it. The earth can't help it. Mike. Let's try again. The trees are budding all around. Do you see?
3) You should be dancing in that funeral home of yours because John Kasich beat Trump in Ohio. The bigot lost. The normal guy from Ohio won. Your party is still in complete chaos, and Trump is still ahead, and the forces from every fairy tale known to man should be gathering to plan his defeat. Perhaps there's something you can do about this? Whisper in Boehner's ear? Ask Colin Powell to put Trump over his knee? You're caught, I feel it, you don't know what to say about your Republicans. Hah. I got you. I've got you here.
4) I'm planning a tree fort for the backyard. I will make sure things are bolted in tight. I will think of your toolboxes when it happens. I will say this to my kids.
5) I still want you to come back. The lack of a physical body is irrelevant to my desire.
6) I regret that I didn't pay more attention to football when you were alive. The stats bored me. I'm sorry. I will try to find a way to remember them. I now have a picture that your brother sent to me of you in football gear at 10. You're crouching. You might rush. You're probably making a football grimace inside your yellow helmet. That kid, that boy who I can build your adult body around, can he help me remember the scores. He cares about football. I need him.
7) A dad came up to the snack bar at the wrestling tournament a few weeks ago and ordered a pizza from me at the counter. He was polite. His hair was short. He looked athletic. He gave the name "Mike" for his order, and I had to turn away.
8) I've said enough things, and I think you're done now. Thank you for helping me to know when to stop. You usually did.
It's 8:08.
I'd thought I was getting this crying issue under control. But I can see you looking at me over your glasses, skeptically, because you know I haven't. I just sat in the DC Basilica with tears streaming down my face. Likely not the first time it has happened in the pews, especially in those lighting candles for the dead. But I really must get ahold of myself. You nod, slowly, eyebrows lifting in humor. I HAVE, I insist, I cry about twice a day now. No more of this five-times-daily routine. You level your baby browns at me and gaze back.
Fine. We'll try something new. This is what I have to say.
1) I thought you looked so handsome in your reading glasses. A pair of your glasses, rimless silver masculine ones, sit with my sunglasses, and I imagine them on you every time I pass by. In these visions you're always wearing blue, and you're always thinking something quite intelligent. Perhaps you'd actually just be thinking that you're ready for a sandwich, but even mustard would be sexy on you in those reading glasses.
2) The trees are budding all around. There is a haze growing over the earth, twenty to fifty feet high. Each brach is becoming larger, tipped and ringed with green that can hardly be contained. Each day the view from my house is different. Life is rising here. You died when the earth was frozen and still. I'm angry for this, that this motion is in the trees, but your poor body gets none. I should stop it. Stop it. The earth can't help it. Mike. Let's try again. The trees are budding all around. Do you see?
3) You should be dancing in that funeral home of yours because John Kasich beat Trump in Ohio. The bigot lost. The normal guy from Ohio won. Your party is still in complete chaos, and Trump is still ahead, and the forces from every fairy tale known to man should be gathering to plan his defeat. Perhaps there's something you can do about this? Whisper in Boehner's ear? Ask Colin Powell to put Trump over his knee? You're caught, I feel it, you don't know what to say about your Republicans. Hah. I got you. I've got you here.
4) I'm planning a tree fort for the backyard. I will make sure things are bolted in tight. I will think of your toolboxes when it happens. I will say this to my kids.
5) I still want you to come back. The lack of a physical body is irrelevant to my desire.
6) I regret that I didn't pay more attention to football when you were alive. The stats bored me. I'm sorry. I will try to find a way to remember them. I now have a picture that your brother sent to me of you in football gear at 10. You're crouching. You might rush. You're probably making a football grimace inside your yellow helmet. That kid, that boy who I can build your adult body around, can he help me remember the scores. He cares about football. I need him.
7) A dad came up to the snack bar at the wrestling tournament a few weeks ago and ordered a pizza from me at the counter. He was polite. His hair was short. He looked athletic. He gave the name "Mike" for his order, and I had to turn away.
8) I've said enough things, and I think you're done now. Thank you for helping me to know when to stop. You usually did.
It's 8:08.
Monday, March 14, 2016
I'm in grief, but I can't find a group. I need a grief group. I've called several places, and nothing is fitting. The woman with the patient lovely voice at Holy Cross would love me to come to her grief group, but that would require my cheerful younger son to become less cheerful due to a longer commute every Wednesday evening. I have no answer. Perhaps I will go grieve with the lovely-voiced woman when my Wednesday evenings free up in May. Then again, I'm grieving now.
And because I'm in grief, I'm not doing very well with figuring out how to organize my grief. My clearest reaction to the grief group issue is to note that my internet searches are now turning up notices for grief groups done to yoga. Grief yoga. Would this be hot yoga, would one think? I know that you find the idea of grief yoga awfully amusing. You're nodding, skepticism lining your forehead and knowing sparks twinkling in the deep brown eyes. You're about to say something about aromatherapy. I hear it. It makes me feel better, warmer.
Because we both know that I'm trying to hold you closer now. The lovely grief woman, who I hope would not ask me to do yoga, told me on the phone that they believe that grief is an expression of love, and they work to help people in need learn to bring that love into themselves and make it a part of them. When she said this, I started to cry, of course.
But I have been trying it. Lovely Grief Lady and my dear friend Laura both gave me the idea that you can still be with me. That it's okay to feel your presence, that I don't have to whirl my mind into circles trying to decide if I'm feeling my own longing or a memory or a common memory or you. It feels like I'm cheating on my rational secular self, but I've been letting myself into that space. When my chest aches and rises with feeling, I tell myself that you are with me. You get to have this, I say, to us both. Be here.
You'd want that, damn it all. I went to the place where I saw you last, when your eyes teared and you turned away as I felt my hand on yours for the last. Friends, I'd said, unless you wanted to talk about ways for it to be different. You were past that. You were probably dying, already then, but we didn't know, or I didn't. Your eyes wept and you'd blurted of another day to talk. We didn't. We never did. You died. And as my mind and my soul and every bit of me screams that it was all still there within me, waiting for you to talk, some part of me wails back that you'll stay with me now, always.
You're not there on that bench, where I saw your sad face last. You don't want that. You want to be with me, as you always did. Right now, as my chest aches and tears stream, the second, third time today, you tell me you want to live in me. That's where you'll be happy.
I want it. I want you here. It's helped today to think it, to think that I'm making myself a better home for you.
And because I'm in grief, I'm not doing very well with figuring out how to organize my grief. My clearest reaction to the grief group issue is to note that my internet searches are now turning up notices for grief groups done to yoga. Grief yoga. Would this be hot yoga, would one think? I know that you find the idea of grief yoga awfully amusing. You're nodding, skepticism lining your forehead and knowing sparks twinkling in the deep brown eyes. You're about to say something about aromatherapy. I hear it. It makes me feel better, warmer.
Because we both know that I'm trying to hold you closer now. The lovely grief woman, who I hope would not ask me to do yoga, told me on the phone that they believe that grief is an expression of love, and they work to help people in need learn to bring that love into themselves and make it a part of them. When she said this, I started to cry, of course.
But I have been trying it. Lovely Grief Lady and my dear friend Laura both gave me the idea that you can still be with me. That it's okay to feel your presence, that I don't have to whirl my mind into circles trying to decide if I'm feeling my own longing or a memory or a common memory or you. It feels like I'm cheating on my rational secular self, but I've been letting myself into that space. When my chest aches and rises with feeling, I tell myself that you are with me. You get to have this, I say, to us both. Be here.
You'd want that, damn it all. I went to the place where I saw you last, when your eyes teared and you turned away as I felt my hand on yours for the last. Friends, I'd said, unless you wanted to talk about ways for it to be different. You were past that. You were probably dying, already then, but we didn't know, or I didn't. Your eyes wept and you'd blurted of another day to talk. We didn't. We never did. You died. And as my mind and my soul and every bit of me screams that it was all still there within me, waiting for you to talk, some part of me wails back that you'll stay with me now, always.
You're not there on that bench, where I saw your sad face last. You don't want that. You want to be with me, as you always did. Right now, as my chest aches and tears stream, the second, third time today, you tell me you want to live in me. That's where you'll be happy.
I want it. I want you here. It's helped today to think it, to think that I'm making myself a better home for you.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
When I woke up I thought of you too. I always do, of course, because you're always on my mind and I don't want you to be dead. This morning I tried to keep you with me again. You didn't get up well, in the morning. You snoozed over and over. But you're probably past snoozing now anyway, now that you no longer have a body.
What I thought, this morning, in my warm sunny flannel bed, was the way you liked to hold me. You would say in the evening, lay down with me. Your back would be against the back of the couch, and my back would be against you. Your arms around me. I thought of this, and it did, I'll admit, bring me comfort. I still want your real actual human warm arms; I have no idea how to live without them for the coming 35 years. But today I let the thoughts of you holding me just be the thoughts of holding me, and tried to focus on that. I think I might have held them. And that felt better. Warm. In the warm sunny bed with you, ache in my heart, feeling how you'd close your eyes and lay against me for a long long time.
What I thought, this morning, in my warm sunny flannel bed, was the way you liked to hold me. You would say in the evening, lay down with me. Your back would be against the back of the couch, and my back would be against you. Your arms around me. I thought of this, and it did, I'll admit, bring me comfort. I still want your real actual human warm arms; I have no idea how to live without them for the coming 35 years. But today I let the thoughts of you holding me just be the thoughts of holding me, and tried to focus on that. I think I might have held them. And that felt better. Warm. In the warm sunny bed with you, ache in my heart, feeling how you'd close your eyes and lay against me for a long long time.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
It wasn't snowing today. Today it was hot cold balmy. In the 40s at breakfast, air conditioning by 5pm.
But then you know this. Because I've decided to write to you as present, as one here, with me, in the room. I had a long dinner with a friend, and we talked about you forever. We talked about how she feels her father's presence, how she talks to him. I want to talk to you. So I will, and I am.
Thank god you're here. I've had no idea how to get through your loss without you yourself to listen to me. And I've decided another thing. It's time for something more joyful. You were sad at the end of your life, yet your soul wasn't made for grief. You couldn't hack that. You loved to be happy, as wide as the world, unbounded and fantastic. Humor was very important to you....you put that in your profile. Which was interesting, as it had no humor. But in person, you used to call me and pretend that you were someone else entirely. You were frequently someone with an Indian accent who worked for the collections department at Target. Your Target credit-mongering self would harass me for a while, cheerfully insisting on payment, and then eventually ask for unmentionable favors in lieu of my credit card payment. It was fantastic.
So how do I do this, you wretched dead man with the really sexy goatee? How do I keep you here? You're asking for more unmentionables, I think, I believe that's what you're saying. Talk louder, babe, I can't hear you. You want...what, exactly? You want your dead ego stroked? You want to hear how I loved you? Because there wasn't enough time, in life, there was too much stress at the end, and you want something different now? Tell me how I wanted you, how you kept me alive? How your touch was the best?
On Christmas Eve day, years ago, we went to see Santa on skiis. You came toward me on the beach, in the cold, the brilliant winter sun at your back, shining through your brilliant white hair. Anderson Cooper, you were. You wore ear muffs and shades and a tremendous grin. You were gorgeous. Virile. Blue athletic jacket, gloves, and you could have skiied anywhere with any Norse god. I imagine your kiss in the cold static air, bristly beard, warm lips, powerful body. You are a man.
It's a night in winter, and we're listening to jazz. It's called the Banana Cafe. The man with the sax also plays the piano, and many people are dancing. But I don't care about them. They're dancing faster, and we're dancing slow, you cradling my hand. Close to you, warm for you. Slowly we sway, always together. "You guys look like you're in looooove", I hear. I smile back, for it's true, but we keep dancing.
We are in your kitchen, and you are cooking, moving quickly and surely around. I've never seen your kitchen before. You're wearing cooking pants. I've never seen these before either. Chefs look good in those pants. You certainly did.
You're sitting at my dining table, paper in your hand. You're wearing your reading glasses, the silver ones that sit by my keys. They're rimless, intellectual, sharp little glasses. You look great in them. Your gaze is sharper, you glance up from the paper, you see me really see me. Your mind is a sexy thing.
How's that, babe? Pretty stunning? Are the dudes from the afterlife clapping your back? You smile at me, delight deep in your eyes. You know you deserve it.
Goodnight Mike. It's 12:43.
But then you know this. Because I've decided to write to you as present, as one here, with me, in the room. I had a long dinner with a friend, and we talked about you forever. We talked about how she feels her father's presence, how she talks to him. I want to talk to you. So I will, and I am.
Thank god you're here. I've had no idea how to get through your loss without you yourself to listen to me. And I've decided another thing. It's time for something more joyful. You were sad at the end of your life, yet your soul wasn't made for grief. You couldn't hack that. You loved to be happy, as wide as the world, unbounded and fantastic. Humor was very important to you....you put that in your profile. Which was interesting, as it had no humor. But in person, you used to call me and pretend that you were someone else entirely. You were frequently someone with an Indian accent who worked for the collections department at Target. Your Target credit-mongering self would harass me for a while, cheerfully insisting on payment, and then eventually ask for unmentionable favors in lieu of my credit card payment. It was fantastic.
So how do I do this, you wretched dead man with the really sexy goatee? How do I keep you here? You're asking for more unmentionables, I think, I believe that's what you're saying. Talk louder, babe, I can't hear you. You want...what, exactly? You want your dead ego stroked? You want to hear how I loved you? Because there wasn't enough time, in life, there was too much stress at the end, and you want something different now? Tell me how I wanted you, how you kept me alive? How your touch was the best?
On Christmas Eve day, years ago, we went to see Santa on skiis. You came toward me on the beach, in the cold, the brilliant winter sun at your back, shining through your brilliant white hair. Anderson Cooper, you were. You wore ear muffs and shades and a tremendous grin. You were gorgeous. Virile. Blue athletic jacket, gloves, and you could have skiied anywhere with any Norse god. I imagine your kiss in the cold static air, bristly beard, warm lips, powerful body. You are a man.
It's a night in winter, and we're listening to jazz. It's called the Banana Cafe. The man with the sax also plays the piano, and many people are dancing. But I don't care about them. They're dancing faster, and we're dancing slow, you cradling my hand. Close to you, warm for you. Slowly we sway, always together. "You guys look like you're in looooove", I hear. I smile back, for it's true, but we keep dancing.
We are in your kitchen, and you are cooking, moving quickly and surely around. I've never seen your kitchen before. You're wearing cooking pants. I've never seen these before either. Chefs look good in those pants. You certainly did.
You're sitting at my dining table, paper in your hand. You're wearing your reading glasses, the silver ones that sit by my keys. They're rimless, intellectual, sharp little glasses. You look great in them. Your gaze is sharper, you glance up from the paper, you see me really see me. Your mind is a sexy thing.
How's that, babe? Pretty stunning? Are the dudes from the afterlife clapping your back? You smile at me, delight deep in your eyes. You know you deserve it.
Goodnight Mike. It's 12:43.
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Thursday, March 3rd
You will be cremated soon. I hadn't known you would be, at first, no one did. But the plans had to change, so now you will too, your body. I'm having another hard time with this, with letting go of your self, your known and physical self. It was enough to see it non-moving. It was enough to make myself let go of all the ideas that there had been a mistake and you'd wake up any minute. You can't wake up when you are ashes.
And to know that your body is no where, anywhere, no where on this earth. I loved your body. I knew it. It helped me know myself, more than any body before. I knew the crease in your neck and the lay of your hair and the feel of your hand holding mine. Your feet were soft and you didn't sweat. Your mouth was wonderful on mine; you opened me up and yet made me feel at home. The way your wrist moved to gesture to me made me quake.
I feel like part of me is going to be burned. I also feel like I'm supposed to learn this. For the first time in my life I have some vision of how I would feel if I knew I was going to die, how I would ever find peace with that. You died. It would be a little like that.
10:46. I hope you're happy. I felt strain about you Tuesday. Today I haven't. I hope that's a good thing.
You will be cremated soon. I hadn't known you would be, at first, no one did. But the plans had to change, so now you will too, your body. I'm having another hard time with this, with letting go of your self, your known and physical self. It was enough to see it non-moving. It was enough to make myself let go of all the ideas that there had been a mistake and you'd wake up any minute. You can't wake up when you are ashes.
And to know that your body is no where, anywhere, no where on this earth. I loved your body. I knew it. It helped me know myself, more than any body before. I knew the crease in your neck and the lay of your hair and the feel of your hand holding mine. Your feet were soft and you didn't sweat. Your mouth was wonderful on mine; you opened me up and yet made me feel at home. The way your wrist moved to gesture to me made me quake.
I feel like part of me is going to be burned. I also feel like I'm supposed to learn this. For the first time in my life I have some vision of how I would feel if I knew I was going to die, how I would ever find peace with that. You died. It would be a little like that.
10:46. I hope you're happy. I felt strain about you Tuesday. Today I haven't. I hope that's a good thing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)