Untitled--26.
26.
It will be over soon. I had such a hard time telling people at first. I thought that we needed to do this in silence. But you were wife and mother and that’s a station that’s barely sung. But the most sacred places from the past were erased by nature. That’s what I hoped this could be. No markers. Just a remembrance of how we all changed. That was the value in it. That is what we will remember. This was about you. It was about all of us, too.
No more names. My mother only speaks to you in Romanian now but I speak to you in English. I wonder if you understand any of it, how thin the veil is. I know you are reacting to us. Your eyebrows move, your face changes and your breathing changes when you are in pain. I see fear in them sometimes. A friend tells me that we are your anchor and maybe you don’t want to leave when we are all watching. Ticu did. I know you would want to let mom sleep. I know you would think of that. You sleep so much, too. You are living on drugs now. Just warm numbness, waiting for the womb of death.
Is publishing this making too public the personal shame of death? I think about that now, because I know that we will all need to be moving on soon. Very little TV in the background now. No more fear-based news, to my relief. But when I’m not there I think that perhaps it’ll be that way. I expect three more days. We are all gambling, making bets like some twisted game in Vegas. We all need sleep. There is so much fatigue going around. My worst grief is that mom is talking bad about herself caretaking you. Let’s go to Vegas for Easter. I want mom to have a vacation finally. We’ve all been hanging on so long. But I need to be going. I can’t stay here with everyone and mom won’t let me help. You need to be going, too. Maybe one more night of sleep. Maybe three. No one knows. The engines are dying. Soon the cabin will be burned.
I wish we could cremate you. I hate dead bodies. Daughter and granddaughter mean nothing when I will have no progeny. You didn’t get your wish. I didn’t get married before you died. Luckily, sometimes we all soften our promises.
It will be over soon. I had such a hard time telling people at first. I thought that we needed to do this in silence. But you were wife and mother and that’s a station that’s barely sung. But the most sacred places from the past were erased by nature. That’s what I hoped this could be. No markers. Just a remembrance of how we all changed. That was the value in it. That is what we will remember. This was about you. It was about all of us, too.
No more names. My mother only speaks to you in Romanian now but I speak to you in English. I wonder if you understand any of it, how thin the veil is. I know you are reacting to us. Your eyebrows move, your face changes and your breathing changes when you are in pain. I see fear in them sometimes. A friend tells me that we are your anchor and maybe you don’t want to leave when we are all watching. Ticu did. I know you would want to let mom sleep. I know you would think of that. You sleep so much, too. You are living on drugs now. Just warm numbness, waiting for the womb of death.
Is publishing this making too public the personal shame of death? I think about that now, because I know that we will all need to be moving on soon. Very little TV in the background now. No more fear-based news, to my relief. But when I’m not there I think that perhaps it’ll be that way. I expect three more days. We are all gambling, making bets like some twisted game in Vegas. We all need sleep. There is so much fatigue going around. My worst grief is that mom is talking bad about herself caretaking you. Let’s go to Vegas for Easter. I want mom to have a vacation finally. We’ve all been hanging on so long. But I need to be going. I can’t stay here with everyone and mom won’t let me help. You need to be going, too. Maybe one more night of sleep. Maybe three. No one knows. The engines are dying. Soon the cabin will be burned.
I wish we could cremate you. I hate dead bodies. Daughter and granddaughter mean nothing when I will have no progeny. You didn’t get your wish. I didn’t get married before you died. Luckily, sometimes we all soften our promises.
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