Untitled--7.
7.
I had hoped that it would be possible to keep this to myself for now. And it could be, but you were wife and mother and I believe that people need to sing the praises of that more. Too often we are silent. My mother acts like you have an indefinite amount of time to be here, but that you also might be here tomorrow. As if all time were compressed into one tiny ball, one dot, one moment of realism. With Ticu it seems like we had a schedule. Three months. Everything felt so organized.
Time does strange things now. It has become more a guideline than a rule, but then sometimes a thing you have to pray to religiously. You mark the time with medical routines, bodily functions. Your kidneys tick and tock. But it could be today or it could be weeks from now.
You watch old Jimmy Stewart movies and fear-based news. I wonder if this keeps you alive somehow. I wonder if Stewart is an angel of idealism in a world where I’d rather not understand what was going on around me either. Maybe he reminds you of the America you were never here for but would like to recall. I wonder if you watch those movies with complete presence of mind, his script triggering things you have already viewed, or whether the plots are a new gift to you every single time.
But someday I will be here with someone else. I would rather not guess who. We’ll mark out time in similar ways, so we can grasp to familiarity rather than the devil of unknown darkness. I haven’t stopped to think about how I may have to do it all myself. But it’s getting late, and we all have to go pretty soon. You have to go too. I wanted this to be our secret, left only between the women of our blood. But the voice of self-judgment tells me that I should speak it.
I had hoped that it would be possible to keep this to myself for now. And it could be, but you were wife and mother and I believe that people need to sing the praises of that more. Too often we are silent. My mother acts like you have an indefinite amount of time to be here, but that you also might be here tomorrow. As if all time were compressed into one tiny ball, one dot, one moment of realism. With Ticu it seems like we had a schedule. Three months. Everything felt so organized.
Time does strange things now. It has become more a guideline than a rule, but then sometimes a thing you have to pray to religiously. You mark the time with medical routines, bodily functions. Your kidneys tick and tock. But it could be today or it could be weeks from now.
You watch old Jimmy Stewart movies and fear-based news. I wonder if this keeps you alive somehow. I wonder if Stewart is an angel of idealism in a world where I’d rather not understand what was going on around me either. Maybe he reminds you of the America you were never here for but would like to recall. I wonder if you watch those movies with complete presence of mind, his script triggering things you have already viewed, or whether the plots are a new gift to you every single time.
But someday I will be here with someone else. I would rather not guess who. We’ll mark out time in similar ways, so we can grasp to familiarity rather than the devil of unknown darkness. I haven’t stopped to think about how I may have to do it all myself. But it’s getting late, and we all have to go pretty soon. You have to go too. I wanted this to be our secret, left only between the women of our blood. But the voice of self-judgment tells me that I should speak it.
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