Saturday, June 9, 2012
It was a quick call, hours earlier. It was an after the fact conversation about emergency rooms and plaque, and a casual reference of not being able to move much less walk. A simple 'So this thing happened' like she was telling me about a minor bump in a parking lot. My mother mentions her illness with the casualty of sharing going to a new restaurant. "So by the way I'm on IV's now". There's a certain flair for the dramatic and self indulgence she's never had, so I inherited most of it for her. Since seven I've been feeling for her, but I couldn't feel this.
Here I was, on the opposite coast, my foot on the break, my foot on the gas, in motion, mobile, a task I do mindlessly. Music purring through the speakers mindlessly. When I walk, steps I take mindlessly, thoughts forming words mindlessly, these fingers I type mindlessly, ungratefully. I can't be grateful after every step, every task ,because that gratefulness is too scary, the fragility is to scary. The trust is too scary. The brain tells me to move and i move, I scratch my head, I squish my toes, I think to speak and before i can think it, it is done. But tonight maybe she can't, in weeks she might never, so I feel my foot on the gas, and turn. Not quite sure where I'm going, but I turn because I can.