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Show Moon - 213 I tried to stop you, protested, argued. Your voice got louder. You were not sweet. You pounded the arm of the chair with your fist and cried, "Why was I born?" For a while after that visit to Delaware I saw sparkles of light between me and other people. It was difficult to hear them well, to think about what they were saying because of the distraction. Other times, the world would unfocus, sliding into a place precarious: a tilted subway platform, taxis careening onto the crosswalk. I thought I might forget how to get off the escalator, might fail to notice a pane of glass. Some days I forgot the most simple things, like where to put the subway token, which way to turn as I emerged into the sunlight. I have not always been sure where you end and I begin. I've reserved a rental car to drive from Evanston to the cottage because I'm tired of airplanes and I need some days in that slow limbo of being on the road where I can maybe put together why I've taken this journey. Perhaps it's that I've had to pick up the pieces of myself scattered all over the country like cast-off clothing I need to reclaim. Or maybe I've needed to take other people's clothes off my back and return them to their owners so I could be ready for a future of my own. It comes to me-so obvious I'd overlooked it-I'm now exactly the same age as you. So, our journey together goes on. I wonder if the belief that I should die has crept into my three a.m. mind as a natural imperative, something in the rhythms, the tides-like being taken by surprise in the cabin of a ship, like saying, "Hello again" to the blood that used to come cheerfully, always on time (sweet ever-hopeful nest, better luck next time). It's as if riding Windfall into the k |
