Hand tattoos and the river that flows uphill will both pour into the nightmare that is an empty dashboard. The agony of defeat and the summary page at the end of a weeks-long report will cascade into infinity. Punctuated by exclamations. Perforated by death rattles. Escorted by the deceased into a box buried below the surface.
Do you remember sitting in that cold church crying at the sound of the bagpipes?
Do you remember the painful experience that was walking through those halls to see the aged aging in their wheelchairs?
Do you remember the machines and how they hooked themselves up to the dying?
The brown plastic dinnerware. The vending machines. The chipped ice.
There used to be holidays of filled houses. Championships between cousins. Camcorders and photographs. Books filled with memories. The chair in the corner where all the unwrapped presents got stacked. The cookies. The pies. The laughs. The football games. There was so much connection and it seemed like it would go on forever.
Until it didn't.
People got separated by death and by time. People got divided by age and location. Some sort of canyon laid itself down right there in the middle and the group split. Time passed. Time passes. Time is passing.
There are no more presents. There are no more cookies. There is no more cake. There is no more connection. There is no more family.
We all came in alone and we shall all go out alone. What happens in the middle is irrelevant.
Somewhere along the line I lost faith and hope in the extended portions. I stopped caring when I stopped feeling cared for and I detached. It’s what I am great at. No one on this earth is better at segmenting myself from the rest. I’ve practiced it my whole life. It’s not a badge I wear with honor, but rather one I wear with honesty. I don’t want my legacy to be isolation.
Isolation. Insulation. Mutilation. Amends.
Separation. Degradation. Commendation. Ahem.
This. That. Otherwise.
To be seen. To be heard. To be undone.
A cataclysm, a baptism and a death by firing squad.
I crawled inside the neck of the giraffe you owned and I made my way up to the second story. I looked out onto the battle field at the wreckage of my past and I said, “I see you and I hear you.”
I baked animal crackers with the Mother and we fed them to the children. When it was our turn to sing again, we passed. We ate butterfly wings made of crystalline sugar. We lounged by the pool that was filled with brandy. When the attendants came by we laughed under our breath. We read books about leadership and took notes in the margins. We herded elephants up to the edge of the dirt road. We laughed and laughed and laughed.
Tomorrow it’ll be your turn. The next day, his. Get the groceries. Carry them up. Cry yourself to sleep under the couch.
Be done.