Untitled--8.

8.

I wanted to not have to talk about this. I wanted to keep it secret as a sacred item between us, between the women of our blood, because there was only us left. But you were wife and mother, and the praises of this are never sung enough. It is taken for granted. I wanted the world to know how you were, about the foundation that you laid, what a jewel of intelligence and wit you possessed. I never knew how you did it on your fixed income.

We review names. You are Doina. I hear now that you have been calling for Ticu in your sleep. Maybe he is close. Maybe in our minds we know. But we never know how long it will be or take. This is your daughter. I am your granddaughter. Not your daughter. Your other daughter lives far away. Basic self-identification is complicated. How we read our own existence has ascended to the collective memory.

You watch fear-based news and Jimmy Stewart movies. I wonder if you even remember his name. I wonder if he is an image who reminds you of a slew of memories, or whether these are just tableaux passing on a passive screen now. Is there passive understanding now? Do you know what’s going on? We’ve now sprung forward and I don’t know how you interpret that, either. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Are the movies a recollection from long ago?

But I will be back here with someone else one day. I don’t want to ask who yet, and I don’t know whether I will be doing it by myself. That part doesn’t matter right now. Time is changing, and you need to go soon. So do I. Our visits always have an endcap.