Dia de los Muertos [View All]

[SOteric]

You.
I helped you into your underpants. You staggered from the anesthetic and asked me about my visit with ’M’ over and over and over again. Outside, the sky turned an ominous grey and green. Rain soaked my hands as I juggled your purse, the parking pass, a paper bag with two blueberry muffins in it and the handles of your wheelchair. The highway was a black strip of wet ribbon. The next morning, you were puking and puking and puking. I stood over you with a cold wet washcloth and a bottle of Gravol and a plastic cup of flat Canada Dry Ginger Ale. The lights in the bedroom were slanted sideways making this sickness seem even more surreal and frightening. You’re dying. Rotting from the inside out and all I can think of is that picture of you when you were a little girl - in black and white - your big eyes full of excitement and anticipation as you sit in front of a birthday cake. A long time ago. Before you were sick and bruised and broken into unrecognizable pieces.

You.
You are crazy and charming and paranoid and angry. You make me laugh. You make me cringe. Yesterday you said, “Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?” and then you jerked the steering-wheel across two lanes of oncoming traffic and into the drive-thru before I could say yes. I paid. We drove to a cabin in the woods in the middle of a Christmas tree farm. You stayed here, all alone, when your marriage finally fell apart. The wind blew my hair in my face as I sipped my coffee. God felt near. Look how far we’ve come. Look how far we have to go.

You.
I am suspicious of you. You have hurt me so many times that it makes me dizzy and unable to think. On the phone, you said: “I’m not lying, J.” I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand a single word of our conversation. In my gut and my throat and my heart something pulsed on and on - something primordial, something beyond me. After, you carry on and act normal. I don’t. I retreat and feel shriveled up and outside myself. And you weren’t lying. For once, you didn’t lie. And instead of feeling vindicated or joyful or more trusting or learning to look for the lesson in it somewhere, I went cold and silent. Then, I said cruel things and slammed the car door. This morning, you poured the coffee and wiped up the spills and yawned and stretched and asked me if I was ready to go. Your hair is soft and spiky. You need a trim. I want to run my hands through it. Over and over again. I love you. And I’m sorry.

You.
You drive me insane. I let you. In the parking lot, I scolded you like I was the mother and you were the child. I made you promise, promise, promise to call me and let me know the plan. Then, I pushed you and your suitcase in the direction of the main doors. You turned and said: “Give me a kiss.” and I kissed you, right on the lips and got your shimmery coral-pink lipstick on my mouth. I could smell it after you disappeared through the big doors. I drove down unfamiliar streets. The high winds had knocked out the power that feeds the traffic lights. I got lost. I cursed. I felt flustered. Then, it all made sense. After, the fields of brown and yellow and orange and red against the steel grey sky made me sad. The season is winding down. And it made me wonder how many more seasons you’ll see. To me, you are an unstoppable force. Yet you possess an equal amount of child-like innocence and vulnerability. I can hardly believe that you haven’t taken over the world yet. This from the woman who can’t find her way out of the parking lot at the mall.