He was a ghost of the person he was before. The last time I saw him, his belly rotund and his laugh boisterous, I found myself frustrated by his constant fighting of me. He fought me because, unlike his disease, I was present and palpable with a face to place on his struggle. He tired me.
Now, his hollowness and tiredness made me long for the fight. "Fight me", I pleaded inwardly, "fight what is happening to you!" The skeletal frame he now pushed around could not support the weight of hoping. I complimented his newly growing, greying beard and his laugh and his cheeks were sallow and sunken. I hated what had happened to him. I hated him because I could not help him, and his lack of desperation made me feel desperate. Sometimes you see what terrifies you most in life mirrored in the face of a person, and their mere existence forces you to confront the demon within your own self.
But how can I help someone when I can barely help myself?
Trucks are prohibited...but you are always welcome
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Monday, March 3, 2014
Dishrag
I'm a damp dishrag. I find myself draped over the furniture, warming in the light of the morning after last night. Last night. My edges are curling and darkened as I try to collect my fire-ant feelings. I feel there are so many they blur to a swelling, swirling mass with no discernible border. Sadness, perhaps... anger? Not now. My anger is an aerosol can in a campfire. I'm sure I will confront it when I'm 30 and my toddler drops a dish.
Empty. Hollow. Shockingly devoid. A cave so dark you can not see your hand before your face, even when it's so close you can feel the heat of it. And him... I think of him and he's gone from the real to the abstract. I realize I can't think of him as a person right now, or else I risk thinking of myself as a person as well. Only a person can be hurt. Objects are safe, they can be broken but never hurt.
Soggy and limp and used, I watch the hands of the clock spin and spin like a record playing a stupid, too-long song about finding love. And I, I lie in my own damp chill and wait and wait and wait. Why hope for clean? For now I'll just settle for dry.
Empty. Hollow. Shockingly devoid. A cave so dark you can not see your hand before your face, even when it's so close you can feel the heat of it. And him... I think of him and he's gone from the real to the abstract. I realize I can't think of him as a person right now, or else I risk thinking of myself as a person as well. Only a person can be hurt. Objects are safe, they can be broken but never hurt.
Soggy and limp and used, I watch the hands of the clock spin and spin like a record playing a stupid, too-long song about finding love. And I, I lie in my own damp chill and wait and wait and wait. Why hope for clean? For now I'll just settle for dry.
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