I envision a thrilling end to my life. Walking in the light rain today, shirtless, sweating and tired from an earlier workout, I pictured an incoming meteor slamming into the Earth. The impact so great, rotting and fresh Earth poured out like a bullet tearing the flesh of the Earth and it's mud, worms, and water flying into the air like blood. I stand and wait. There is no question anymore of my fate. This is it, the moment. My gut flinches. I let the intensity of the situation flow over my body; a new kind of warmth hits my skin. The warmth of endless emotion pouring throughout my body like I poured a shot of whisky down my throat and it poured over my organs and soaked into my skin. I raise my arms and embrace it. My body becomes one with the Earth, momentarily as it drives through me; its power rips my skin, and for a second, I know the Earth's pain. Then I am gone. I am no more. All I had been thinking about that day, worried about that week, it is all nothing. I have returned to the blackness from which I spawned; but is it life or is it death? Are we dead now, waiting to release to finally begin living? The way a Christian talks, I really begin to wonder where we are at all.
Yesterday I watched the sun dive in and out of storm clouds. They were flying across the skyline like smoke. The sun was like a peering eye through it all. It popped in and out of the broken cloud formations, but as it slipped back under the cover, all its rays fell off. It was a dull, white circle. There was nothing flowing off of it and I could stare at it perfectly. It has watched down over me all my life; now I could finally return an even gaze. The sun's skin was peeled back, we could see eye to eye; we were on the same level. It could not longer injure my skin with its exploding heat. It could not reach to stab my eyes. It sat behind the veil of the clouds, waiting until it was time to strike again.
I became lost in the silence and serenity of that summer moment. I did not contemplate existence; I did not think of myself, my family, friends,or loves; I was just an observer, nothing more.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Text: Grandma, madness
I haven't been to my mom's in a while. I went over there this evening for dinner. She was making ribs, white rice and corn. She used the pans I bought her three years ago for Christmas.
"How are the pans holding up?"
"Fine," She replied.
"I cooked the ribs in Pepsi," she comments.
I'm not entirely sure, but there is something a little white-trash about using a soda product in your fine cuisine for the evening. This must be related to the fact that somewhere in my history with my mother, we lived in a trailer together. In fact, when she first started dating Lars, her current husband, we were still living in one. We begin eating the meal. There is nothing much to discuss, but when we do find something to talk about it is typically about the movies.
"Have you seen Hot Fuzz?" My brother, Andrew, asks.
"No,” I reply.
"Oh, it is alright, I guess," he says.
He is a growing boy. His first year of high school begins in the fall and he has the signs of puberty--pimples, awkward height coupled with skinniness, and a deep voice. I glance around the table. Lars is wearing his typical wifebeater baring his bear tattoo on one giant, sunburned arm. His hair has gone from long to mullet to a fuzzy short blonde and he has never shaved his goatee and moustache since I've known him. If he is not drunk on Jagermeister or Busch, he is usually fixing a vehicle, or trying to figure out how computers work and asks me a series of questions every time I go over. That is our little trade. He fixes my Toyota and I fix his computer. We really have no other association than that, except when both of our fathers died within a year of each other. We didn't discuss much other than our condolences.
My brother and I disappear to play catch with a baseball after dinner. My mom sits on the porch and observes while smoking. She admires the garden she has made around the front of her house. There are a bunch of plants with juicy peppers growing around her driveway and the walkway to her house. She talks about them and her pet fish and her pet dogs like they are some of her closest friends. My brother and I come to a close and walk back to where she is sitting, but in the meantime a red Jetta is pulling towards us slowly.
"There's Ryan's mom!" someone shouts from the back of the car, talking about my mother (who has no sons named Ryan).
I raise an eyebrow. Andrew just stares awkwardly at the car full of young girls, probably in their mid teens. I can't see the back of the car, which apparently has someone's mom in it. She is being escorted by a couple of young girls in the front seat. I only see a hand from the window as she waves to us.
"We just got drunk," the girl from the driver's seat informs us.
Then they slowly pull away.
Well that was interesting, wasn't it, I'm thinking to myself. We start to analyze the situation and discuss it amongst ourselves for a small time. Then we stop and my mom changes the subject.
"Andrew told all his friends that I used to hang out with Al Roker when I went to fat school as a kid," my mom tells me.
"And she used to smoke the 'peace' pipe," Andrew chimes in.
I wonder if Andrew even knows what he is talking about, but then I think of his myspace profile. Aside from posting bulletins every day to "Comment on his pics or DIE!!!!!" he has labeled himself as part of the FMF crew. He tells me this stands for "Fresh Motha Fuckers" and his friends all have a collection of profiles matching this. There is nothing cooler than a bunch of skinny white boys starting a Junior High gang. So I give him the benefit of the doubt, based on this earlier observation. The conversation keeps changing as no one really has anything in particular to talk about. I tell my mom about my uncle's cancer news and the state of my grandma. I tell my mom that my grandma has stopped driving, is losing her mind, and is moving slowly now.
"Should I go over there?" my mom asks.
"I don't think so," I comment.
"What's she going to do with that house?"
"I don't really know. She offered it to me, but I don't think I would like to live there."
"Why not?" my mother asks with some confusion in her voice.
"I really don't want to have to ever say, 'Okay, and here is where my grandfather died. Here is where my father died. Lastly, here is where my grandmother died!"
Everytime I walk into that house I am faintly reminded of those particular moments. I never witnessed them in person, so all I can do is imagine what it felt like to lay next to my grandpa while he choked on his own blood when his heart stopped. I can only imagine what it felt like to touch my dad's cold forehead or hand as he rest his head on the front of the bed, watching television with his mouth cocked open, eyes shut or wide open--dying alone, in the basement of his mother's house--a returned, defeated, divorced man. Yea, I'll pass on the house. Thanks.
I know a lot of my writing lately has talked about my dad or family or death. It is tough not to incorporate that into my writing right now since it is a very relevant topic for me. I hope someday I will outgrow it. Right now I need to learn from it and talk about it in the only way I feel comfortable, here. It is helping, I feel.
That's all for now.
"How are the pans holding up?"
"Fine," She replied.
"I cooked the ribs in Pepsi," she comments.
I'm not entirely sure, but there is something a little white-trash about using a soda product in your fine cuisine for the evening. This must be related to the fact that somewhere in my history with my mother, we lived in a trailer together. In fact, when she first started dating Lars, her current husband, we were still living in one. We begin eating the meal. There is nothing much to discuss, but when we do find something to talk about it is typically about the movies.
"Have you seen Hot Fuzz?" My brother, Andrew, asks.
"No,” I reply.
"Oh, it is alright, I guess," he says.
He is a growing boy. His first year of high school begins in the fall and he has the signs of puberty--pimples, awkward height coupled with skinniness, and a deep voice. I glance around the table. Lars is wearing his typical wifebeater baring his bear tattoo on one giant, sunburned arm. His hair has gone from long to mullet to a fuzzy short blonde and he has never shaved his goatee and moustache since I've known him. If he is not drunk on Jagermeister or Busch, he is usually fixing a vehicle, or trying to figure out how computers work and asks me a series of questions every time I go over. That is our little trade. He fixes my Toyota and I fix his computer. We really have no other association than that, except when both of our fathers died within a year of each other. We didn't discuss much other than our condolences.
My brother and I disappear to play catch with a baseball after dinner. My mom sits on the porch and observes while smoking. She admires the garden she has made around the front of her house. There are a bunch of plants with juicy peppers growing around her driveway and the walkway to her house. She talks about them and her pet fish and her pet dogs like they are some of her closest friends. My brother and I come to a close and walk back to where she is sitting, but in the meantime a red Jetta is pulling towards us slowly.
"There's Ryan's mom!" someone shouts from the back of the car, talking about my mother (who has no sons named Ryan).
I raise an eyebrow. Andrew just stares awkwardly at the car full of young girls, probably in their mid teens. I can't see the back of the car, which apparently has someone's mom in it. She is being escorted by a couple of young girls in the front seat. I only see a hand from the window as she waves to us.
"We just got drunk," the girl from the driver's seat informs us.
Then they slowly pull away.
Well that was interesting, wasn't it, I'm thinking to myself. We start to analyze the situation and discuss it amongst ourselves for a small time. Then we stop and my mom changes the subject.
"Andrew told all his friends that I used to hang out with Al Roker when I went to fat school as a kid," my mom tells me.
"And she used to smoke the 'peace' pipe," Andrew chimes in.
I wonder if Andrew even knows what he is talking about, but then I think of his myspace profile. Aside from posting bulletins every day to "Comment on his pics or DIE!!!!!" he has labeled himself as part of the FMF crew. He tells me this stands for "Fresh Motha Fuckers" and his friends all have a collection of profiles matching this. There is nothing cooler than a bunch of skinny white boys starting a Junior High gang. So I give him the benefit of the doubt, based on this earlier observation. The conversation keeps changing as no one really has anything in particular to talk about. I tell my mom about my uncle's cancer news and the state of my grandma. I tell my mom that my grandma has stopped driving, is losing her mind, and is moving slowly now.
"Should I go over there?" my mom asks.
"I don't think so," I comment.
"What's she going to do with that house?"
"I don't really know. She offered it to me, but I don't think I would like to live there."
"Why not?" my mother asks with some confusion in her voice.
"I really don't want to have to ever say, 'Okay, and here is where my grandfather died. Here is where my father died. Lastly, here is where my grandmother died!"
Everytime I walk into that house I am faintly reminded of those particular moments. I never witnessed them in person, so all I can do is imagine what it felt like to lay next to my grandpa while he choked on his own blood when his heart stopped. I can only imagine what it felt like to touch my dad's cold forehead or hand as he rest his head on the front of the bed, watching television with his mouth cocked open, eyes shut or wide open--dying alone, in the basement of his mother's house--a returned, defeated, divorced man. Yea, I'll pass on the house. Thanks.
I know a lot of my writing lately has talked about my dad or family or death. It is tough not to incorporate that into my writing right now since it is a very relevant topic for me. I hope someday I will outgrow it. Right now I need to learn from it and talk about it in the only way I feel comfortable, here. It is helping, I feel.
That's all for now.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Text: Contemplation
My future is still uncertain. I am excited for my internship this fall. I received an email from Joe Prentice, a Daily Camera editor and layout designer, telling me that it was pretty much a sure thing. I just need to get the ball rolling in a few weeks, talk to a few people, then I work two nights a week editing articles for the paper. Right now I am signed up for five classes, but I plan on dropping three of them as the semester starts. If I kept this work load I would need to dedicate time for homework, at least four nights of working long bar shifts, and two nights for the internship. I am thinking this might be physically impossible. I don't want to tax my mind and body to the point that I hate my last semester of school. I would also like to continue working out and I don't see any way of fitting that into this schedule.
Otherwise, I've been thinking about my future after school. I am hoping the internship will answer a lot of questions for me as to whether or not I want to use my major. Two other possibilities I've considered is applying for graduate school in English or History. Lately I've been leaning more towards History. I have a genuine interest in history and it always has relevance. It would be fun to write historical films, or novels, or even fantasy novels incorporating the romanticism of history in general. I would need to start considering my options soon. I'd prefer to stay in state for school, but I would be open to possibilities of moving elsewhere or even traveling. I am not entirely sure if my financial situation would permit me to do so, but in the event that I could, it might be a nice change.
Recently I've been feeling more confident in my writing and even more so in my photography. I've been contemplating working my ass off for the next month to buy a nice digital camera. I'd love to take more black and white photos of people, portraits, or even just snapshots of daily activities. Beauty is so simple. I feel like I have so many possibilities but none of the right tools or training to master the things I want to do. I'd love to get better at photography, writing, weight lifting, all these easy things, I am wondering if my career path in journalism will enhance my knowledge of these hobbies. I probably will have to do the weight lifting thing on my own.
What about acting, though? I love doing it in the conversations I have. My comedy is usually an act. It involves the right facial expressions, timing, delivery, and knowing my audience - which I've felt more confident about lately. How can I incorporate my love of English and history, as well as my writing, photography and comedy? So much of me feels it is in film. Kyle, a friend of mine who works in Hollywood directing, producing and editing told me that it doesn't start the way I would imagine.
"You have to write it in book form first," he tells me. I know I can do it. Where does it start though? What is it about? So many books and movies are coming out lately about every day life. There is nothing much going on other than some exploration of the imagination thrown into daily existence, like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Then there are these epic movies based on epic books, like Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. Some people say that market is so dried up because all the great Science Fiction already exists and everything else is just secondary. I don't believe that. Just like I don't believe I can't be an actor, or a writer, or director. It takes one person to fill those roles, even though there are millions of applicants.
Lately I've been trying to piece together memories of my past in Kansas. I feel that there might be something there I can tap into, at least as a foundational work-or an inspirational piece; a practice story that can test my dedication. I also think that after I finish college, I will feel differently about life. I will at least have the necessary education and tools laid before me to start piecing together what I want to do with my time. I also feel like graduating will open up outlets to work more hours, or get a better paying job and earn something worthwhile. I'm a little worried about the repayment of my school loans, but I'll have to manage it when the time comes. For now I can only hope that might future is as bright as I feel it is. I know I can make something of myself and I will figure it out. Maybe I'll spend the rest of my life doing it but I know in the end my life will be fantastic.
Otherwise, I've been thinking about my future after school. I am hoping the internship will answer a lot of questions for me as to whether or not I want to use my major. Two other possibilities I've considered is applying for graduate school in English or History. Lately I've been leaning more towards History. I have a genuine interest in history and it always has relevance. It would be fun to write historical films, or novels, or even fantasy novels incorporating the romanticism of history in general. I would need to start considering my options soon. I'd prefer to stay in state for school, but I would be open to possibilities of moving elsewhere or even traveling. I am not entirely sure if my financial situation would permit me to do so, but in the event that I could, it might be a nice change.
Recently I've been feeling more confident in my writing and even more so in my photography. I've been contemplating working my ass off for the next month to buy a nice digital camera. I'd love to take more black and white photos of people, portraits, or even just snapshots of daily activities. Beauty is so simple. I feel like I have so many possibilities but none of the right tools or training to master the things I want to do. I'd love to get better at photography, writing, weight lifting, all these easy things, I am wondering if my career path in journalism will enhance my knowledge of these hobbies. I probably will have to do the weight lifting thing on my own.
What about acting, though? I love doing it in the conversations I have. My comedy is usually an act. It involves the right facial expressions, timing, delivery, and knowing my audience - which I've felt more confident about lately. How can I incorporate my love of English and history, as well as my writing, photography and comedy? So much of me feels it is in film. Kyle, a friend of mine who works in Hollywood directing, producing and editing told me that it doesn't start the way I would imagine.
"You have to write it in book form first," he tells me. I know I can do it. Where does it start though? What is it about? So many books and movies are coming out lately about every day life. There is nothing much going on other than some exploration of the imagination thrown into daily existence, like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Then there are these epic movies based on epic books, like Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. Some people say that market is so dried up because all the great Science Fiction already exists and everything else is just secondary. I don't believe that. Just like I don't believe I can't be an actor, or a writer, or director. It takes one person to fill those roles, even though there are millions of applicants.
Lately I've been trying to piece together memories of my past in Kansas. I feel that there might be something there I can tap into, at least as a foundational work-or an inspirational piece; a practice story that can test my dedication. I also think that after I finish college, I will feel differently about life. I will at least have the necessary education and tools laid before me to start piecing together what I want to do with my time. I also feel like graduating will open up outlets to work more hours, or get a better paying job and earn something worthwhile. I'm a little worried about the repayment of my school loans, but I'll have to manage it when the time comes. For now I can only hope that might future is as bright as I feel it is. I know I can make something of myself and I will figure it out. Maybe I'll spend the rest of my life doing it but I know in the end my life will be fantastic.
Text: Fading
I was riding in the car with Rachel today. She put in a musical CD showcasing her musical accomplishments during high school.
“I’m the piccolo,” she said.
I pictured her as a piccolo. A dot. I pictured her as a single bouncing atom among atomic sounds. There was a wave of other instrument players, but her sound rose above them. She was glowing; all else in my mind was black. If I had never seen the stars, I could imagine that this is what they sounded like. She was like a star, a glowing white dot in a sea of blackness, burning with passion and with musical intensity.
“I was rated a 1. The group as a whole was rated a 4. ”
She said it so proudly. I had no idea where the scale began or ended, but I knew she did well. I was told by the sound of her voice and the way she smiled.
The music turned my attention out the car window. I started to focus on the small things; a small group of houses grouped together on the peak of a hill, the way growing weeds offered a blast of rustic orange against the fading yellow of the fields. I focused on an incoming moon and then on a falling sun. Sometimes I forget to look up once in a while. Sometimes I am too busy. I kept thinking while her music played . . .
I've been working out more. I shaved my head. A friend of mine commented that the shaving of someone's hair marks a major change in their life, maybe a checkpoint, or a turning point. Maybe it does.
I was thinking of something I heard in a philosophy course I took a while back. What would Aristotle answer to the "chicken or the egg" question.
"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"
"The chicken, so the egg knew what to become."
I then thought about my dad. I thought about how he was only in my life in fragments. It is like having a partial blueprint of what I am supposed to be. Now the missing pieces to my construction are lying in the dirt at Crown Hill Cemetery, six feet under in a wooden treasure box. I spend the rest of my life wondering why my mom and him didn't work out and why his second marriage resulted in his wife cheating on him and leaving for another man. Have I learned the things from him that make me the type of person to be left, to be cheated on? I say fuck it. The only person I can trust for the rest of my life is myself. Nothing surprises me anymore. If I'm surprised, I'm not vigilant. I'm vigilant enough to know that I'm not my father. I'm not the product of a broken household, even though it was ever present.
My mom spent a majority of my childhood bartending, cocktailing, drinking, dating, and partying. We moved trailer to house, to house, to Arizona, to Kansas, back to Colorado. I've been dragged through the dirt of her life while she found out how to clean it all off and find herself. My dad was a phone call or an "every other summer visit" away. He still feels that way. He's dead. It hasn't mattered since it happened. I'm a broken record. My point here is that despite these people being the supposed primary caregivers in my life, I've overlooked one small fact. My Grandparents raised me. They were married for 40 years, had a house paid for and no debt. My grandfather was a man who was loved by many; humorous, honest, sincere, and cared more about me than anyone I know. My mother tells me that my dad struggled to be cast in the same image of his own father being absorbed mostly in the shadow of his legacy. My grandmother now sits in a house; a desolate place where both her son and her husband died under her watch. She is starting to fail in the mind, but seems to be mildly healthy in body.
"Someone sent me a birthday suit," she tells me. I was at her house this past week.
"What?"
It is the first time I genuinely laughed at her house in a long time. Usually everything is so morbid and I just sit there and listen to her. I offer nothing; nothing that makes her feel any better. I tell her not to worry and that she looks great and that she will live another 20 years if she keeps cleaning like she does. She chuckles and swears she hopes not. I hug her often. She says I mean a lot to her; I'm all she has left. I understand this but I feel so detached. I was never that close to my grandmother. Even when we lived together I didn't talk to her that much.
"Betty sent me a birthday card."
Oh, that makes more sense now. I knew what she was trying to tell me, but I wanted to make sure she did too. Betty is an elderly woman who lives across the street who is dying of cancer. She has a nurse who visits her and also escorts my grandma to the store. My grandmother stopped driving a couple of months ago because she clipped some guy's car and he got $500 out of her pocket to pay for it. The insurance company said she had to comply and she was so mad at the fact that no one even looked at her car.
"People are doing this everyday, Bobby."
"Really."
She calls me Bobby or Bob or Charlie. My cousin and my uncles are named Bob. I don't say anything. This year she didn't remember when my birthday was and I called her on that day. I didn't say anything. She got mad that I didn't mention anything and I told her it didn't matter. My grandmother paid my child support my entire life while my dad worked 70 hours a week to pay for his lifestyle. His marriage to a woman 10 years younger than him in a Florida home they owned with their only child, Diana, was the only lifestyle I knew he had. My mother mentioned cocaine. The combination of cocaine abuse, diabetes, smoking, and a poor diet is what did my dad in. What of this did my grandmother know as she entered the basement room where he was watching TV and now slumped lifeless against a bed I used to sleep in. What do people know of anything, or anyone? They know what is shown.
My grandmother also is the unofficial source for everyone who has cancer or has died recently in the Westminster area. I hear about it every time I go over. The time on her television says 8:25 and I know it is 4:30. Does she even care what comes on anymore? Has death been her only focus since her husband? Does time even matter when you lose the one you have cared for all your life?
"You should come into Pappadeaux with Bob and Marita one afternoon. Do you like seafood?" I asked.
"I love catfish. I used to make it all time," she glowed.
"We have great catfish, especially if you get it blackened."
This is the most interesting conversation we've had since I learned my dad's sister's husband has cancer. She checks the clock. She knows I usually leave within an hour or so. She apologizes for boring me or keeping me too long.
"Stop worrying about that. You don't bore me and you aren't keeping me."
I try to assure her. She seems to forget what we are talking about. There is a brief silence. I notice that one copper tile is pulled from above her stove, there are at least forty that tile the wall above it. Everything else seems to look exactly the same since I was little. Spotless as usual. In the silence I realize something. I come to the realization that time does feel like it has stopped here. There are three clocks visible in her kitchen: the stove, the microwave, and my watch. It seems like time is only passing on my wrist, not in my mind or body. It is only apparent since the hand is constantly ticking. The house is filled with antiques like my grandmother's soul. She is 84 as of this post. She has dyed her hair brown. She pushes it in such a manner that would not show baldness and definitely not a sign of gray. She has been fighting the passing of time since she was born; she is a product of the world's vision of the body. Her entire life she has dedicated to the preservation of her face and hair. What happened to her mind? Maybe the body just forgets how to display what's being thought, but maybe the thoughts are sound.
There has to be some connection here. The melody of Rachel's piccolo, a broken copper tile, my grandmother's fading mind; it all hits my heart differently. I might find an answer to it all someday.
“I’m the piccolo,” she said.
I pictured her as a piccolo. A dot. I pictured her as a single bouncing atom among atomic sounds. There was a wave of other instrument players, but her sound rose above them. She was glowing; all else in my mind was black. If I had never seen the stars, I could imagine that this is what they sounded like. She was like a star, a glowing white dot in a sea of blackness, burning with passion and with musical intensity.
“I was rated a 1. The group as a whole was rated a 4. ”
She said it so proudly. I had no idea where the scale began or ended, but I knew she did well. I was told by the sound of her voice and the way she smiled.
The music turned my attention out the car window. I started to focus on the small things; a small group of houses grouped together on the peak of a hill, the way growing weeds offered a blast of rustic orange against the fading yellow of the fields. I focused on an incoming moon and then on a falling sun. Sometimes I forget to look up once in a while. Sometimes I am too busy. I kept thinking while her music played . . .
I've been working out more. I shaved my head. A friend of mine commented that the shaving of someone's hair marks a major change in their life, maybe a checkpoint, or a turning point. Maybe it does.
I was thinking of something I heard in a philosophy course I took a while back. What would Aristotle answer to the "chicken or the egg" question.
"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"
"The chicken, so the egg knew what to become."
I then thought about my dad. I thought about how he was only in my life in fragments. It is like having a partial blueprint of what I am supposed to be. Now the missing pieces to my construction are lying in the dirt at Crown Hill Cemetery, six feet under in a wooden treasure box. I spend the rest of my life wondering why my mom and him didn't work out and why his second marriage resulted in his wife cheating on him and leaving for another man. Have I learned the things from him that make me the type of person to be left, to be cheated on? I say fuck it. The only person I can trust for the rest of my life is myself. Nothing surprises me anymore. If I'm surprised, I'm not vigilant. I'm vigilant enough to know that I'm not my father. I'm not the product of a broken household, even though it was ever present.
My mom spent a majority of my childhood bartending, cocktailing, drinking, dating, and partying. We moved trailer to house, to house, to Arizona, to Kansas, back to Colorado. I've been dragged through the dirt of her life while she found out how to clean it all off and find herself. My dad was a phone call or an "every other summer visit" away. He still feels that way. He's dead. It hasn't mattered since it happened. I'm a broken record. My point here is that despite these people being the supposed primary caregivers in my life, I've overlooked one small fact. My Grandparents raised me. They were married for 40 years, had a house paid for and no debt. My grandfather was a man who was loved by many; humorous, honest, sincere, and cared more about me than anyone I know. My mother tells me that my dad struggled to be cast in the same image of his own father being absorbed mostly in the shadow of his legacy. My grandmother now sits in a house; a desolate place where both her son and her husband died under her watch. She is starting to fail in the mind, but seems to be mildly healthy in body.
"Someone sent me a birthday suit," she tells me. I was at her house this past week.
"What?"
It is the first time I genuinely laughed at her house in a long time. Usually everything is so morbid and I just sit there and listen to her. I offer nothing; nothing that makes her feel any better. I tell her not to worry and that she looks great and that she will live another 20 years if she keeps cleaning like she does. She chuckles and swears she hopes not. I hug her often. She says I mean a lot to her; I'm all she has left. I understand this but I feel so detached. I was never that close to my grandmother. Even when we lived together I didn't talk to her that much.
"Betty sent me a birthday card."
Oh, that makes more sense now. I knew what she was trying to tell me, but I wanted to make sure she did too. Betty is an elderly woman who lives across the street who is dying of cancer. She has a nurse who visits her and also escorts my grandma to the store. My grandmother stopped driving a couple of months ago because she clipped some guy's car and he got $500 out of her pocket to pay for it. The insurance company said she had to comply and she was so mad at the fact that no one even looked at her car.
"People are doing this everyday, Bobby."
"Really."
She calls me Bobby or Bob or Charlie. My cousin and my uncles are named Bob. I don't say anything. This year she didn't remember when my birthday was and I called her on that day. I didn't say anything. She got mad that I didn't mention anything and I told her it didn't matter. My grandmother paid my child support my entire life while my dad worked 70 hours a week to pay for his lifestyle. His marriage to a woman 10 years younger than him in a Florida home they owned with their only child, Diana, was the only lifestyle I knew he had. My mother mentioned cocaine. The combination of cocaine abuse, diabetes, smoking, and a poor diet is what did my dad in. What of this did my grandmother know as she entered the basement room where he was watching TV and now slumped lifeless against a bed I used to sleep in. What do people know of anything, or anyone? They know what is shown.
My grandmother also is the unofficial source for everyone who has cancer or has died recently in the Westminster area. I hear about it every time I go over. The time on her television says 8:25 and I know it is 4:30. Does she even care what comes on anymore? Has death been her only focus since her husband? Does time even matter when you lose the one you have cared for all your life?
"You should come into Pappadeaux with Bob and Marita one afternoon. Do you like seafood?" I asked.
"I love catfish. I used to make it all time," she glowed.
"We have great catfish, especially if you get it blackened."
This is the most interesting conversation we've had since I learned my dad's sister's husband has cancer. She checks the clock. She knows I usually leave within an hour or so. She apologizes for boring me or keeping me too long.
"Stop worrying about that. You don't bore me and you aren't keeping me."
I try to assure her. She seems to forget what we are talking about. There is a brief silence. I notice that one copper tile is pulled from above her stove, there are at least forty that tile the wall above it. Everything else seems to look exactly the same since I was little. Spotless as usual. In the silence I realize something. I come to the realization that time does feel like it has stopped here. There are three clocks visible in her kitchen: the stove, the microwave, and my watch. It seems like time is only passing on my wrist, not in my mind or body. It is only apparent since the hand is constantly ticking. The house is filled with antiques like my grandmother's soul. She is 84 as of this post. She has dyed her hair brown. She pushes it in such a manner that would not show baldness and definitely not a sign of gray. She has been fighting the passing of time since she was born; she is a product of the world's vision of the body. Her entire life she has dedicated to the preservation of her face and hair. What happened to her mind? Maybe the body just forgets how to display what's being thought, but maybe the thoughts are sound.
There has to be some connection here. The melody of Rachel's piccolo, a broken copper tile, my grandmother's fading mind; it all hits my heart differently. I might find an answer to it all someday.
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