Untitled--12.

12.

I wanted to have to avoid speaking it, as if it were our secret. Use the subjunctive, they say. We are zombies of fatigue now. At least you get to sleep. Today my mother told me the whole story of our lineage by your side. Three generations of single mothers. Bipolar in the women on both sides of my family. We are reduced to medical memories. We usually are anyway during this lifetime. I don’t want to tell anybody. I want to tell everybody. When do I get to start telling people?

We review names, but now they are single ones. “I am your daughter” is now too complicated. No series of lists. They moved you to a hospital bed. You did not want to be there. You did not want to be moved. My mom said you had started cussing out your caretaker. Part of me was secretly proud, like maybe it was some energy left in you yet.

You still watch classic movies. There should be something in the background to distract you from your thoughts. You called out to my grandfather in your sleep. My mother told the story: “Ilie,” you said, “I have put two cups here. One for you and one for me. For us to drink from.” I wondered whether this was from a memory or whether you had just made it up in dreamtime. All is one in dreamtime. Another time Claudia said that you went looking for your parents.

But it’s getting late and I have to go. My mother doesn’t have to go yet, luckily. But one day I will be here with somebody else. I don’t know what I will do. That’s ok. I will know what to do then. I trust. I wish you sleep. You were sleeping when I left, too.