(no subject)
There are a hundred wrong ways to begin this story. I feel my tongue curl around the thought and it tastes bittersweet, a remnant of winter rain punishing the corner of a warm, unsuspecting mouth. I think about that, about how maybe, just maybe, it is time to talk about growing older. I taste my own history and think that this time I can jump over all the lessons, all the edifying experience, and talk only about loss. Third movement: just loss. There is a list, an inventory of unfound heartache. I go through everything that my ailing body is depriving me of - fragmented eloquence, muscle amnesia, diminishing peripheral vision - were there any other symptoms? Yes, yes. The diagnosis is simple after a moment of acceptance, hands folded on the faded waiting room couch, tears rising - yes, there were other indications.
The ghost of a tremor pervades my frail fingers. There are no other hands to hold but my own. Maybe I should have mentioned he loss of breathe, the loss of heart, the loss. Would that have made it less uncertain? Does it make it worse? We are sorry for your loss. I am sorry, also. I am sorry that these malfunctions have a name, a source, and that they are euphemisms for you. I wasn’t prepared for you to steal my words, to weaken my body, to be the heart of my city. I wasn’t prepared to wake up slurring, trembling, distracted by a singular idea. We don’t know if it is terminal, but the malignance is there, the weight on my chest does not diminish. One day you go to sleep, smelling of love, and then? And then the taste of winter sneaks in. I wasn’t prepared for loss. But that’s the way it goes, they say. One day, today, you stumble out of a dream and no longer have everything.