Tag: nonfiction

Day 54: Safari

My aunt’s memory is failing. We first noticed this two years ago, when she got lost on the way to the grocery store; these days, she can hardly be left alone.

My dad, her impatient and controlling younger brother, is having a hard time with it.

Most recently, they fought when she told him she just returned from Africa. He reminded her, loudly and with considerable frustration, that she’d not left their neighborhood in years.

I’m truly disappointed in him. What sense does it make to argue? She will be gone soon. I want to know what happened in Africa.

Day 49: Clock

Oncologists, surgeons, and radiologists have decided to navigate the breast as a clock. This way, they can easily communicate about the location of tumors and other irregularities.

I get it. Boobs are (sort of) round. They have a nipple in the middle, anchoring the invisible clock’s hands. Twelve and six are at the top and bottom, with three and nine at the viewer’s right and left.

But have none of these incredibly intelligent people realized that for a cancer patient, a reference to time calls to mind time passing, and potentially running out, and that’s probably not the best idea?

Day 44: Sing

My friend died, brutally, of cancer.

I’d like to gather my thoughts into an elegant essay on her memory wall, as so many of her friends and family have done. But I don’t want to think about it.

I do, however, sing with her.

See, she had a Disney princess voice that was the centerpiece of several secular and religious singing groups. My relationship with God is like a suffocating wool sweater, itchy and uncomfortable. But singing along to her recordings feels like a pure channel to something beyond all of that.

My friend, my heart still hears you singing.

Day 41: Sliding Doors

“Bob,” was a guy I dated in college. We made better friends than significant others. We chatted, partied, danced, tailgated. We fucked, drank, and fought. A lot.

Bob, according to Google, is now living in Los Angeles. He has the job of his dreams directing an entire media division for a large entertainment company (the one with the superheroes). When I learned this, I spent a few minutes considering the what ifs.

And I also considered: what if I’m right where I’m meant to be?

I gaze at my little family asleep on the couch, and feel nothing but relief.

Day 37: Birthday

My sweet baby, there should be no tears on your birthday. You should have only presents, smiles from your friends, and notes of love that remind you of everything wonderful growing another year older means.

I lean over you, holding your cold hand in mine, and your sobs break my heart. I feel your world-weariness, even as young as you are, heavy like a stone in your chest. Growing up means a driver’s permit, freedom, independence. It also means showing a face to the world that has swallowed its tears, at the head of its own table, licking the icing.

Day 35: Shoebox

I helped my daughter clean out her bedroom closet today.

We cooed over old Halloween costumes and counted seven crocheted baby blankets. I found a pair of angel wings, the kind made of wire and white pantyhose. She put them on, along with the gold mortarboard she wore for her graduation from kindergarten. Our dog ate some feathers from a pink boa, and I cleaned out purses with goldfish crackers hidden in their pockets.

I opened a small orange box, and inside was a pair of leather infant shoes. “I’m keeping those,” she said, and put them on her bookshelf.

Day 34: Forgiveness

For my college degree, I had to take Studio Art classes. My Life Drawing professor gave us explicit instructions to never throw failed art works away. “Even if it’s terrible. Even if it’s experimental, and failed horribly. I need to see all of your work. I’ll be kind,” she said.

Of course, I didn’t do what she asked.

Self-portrait, in the garbage. Awful action pose using cross-hatching, tossed away.

For some reason, words work differently. I don’t throw away what doesn’t work, or what’s been abandoned, or what’s been crossed out in confusion. It’s easier, with words, to be kind.

Day 29: Alive

I spent some time today watching a movie about a man whose plane had crashed in the Arctic. He was alone for days, then rescued the co-pilot of a search helicopter who was injured and hardly regained consciousness.

It was, for me, a horror movie.

Instead of a hatchet killer, the horror was the specter of profound human fragility. To emerge from the plane shell, clumsy and frail as a just-hatched bird, the sun never setting, wind never abating. There’s frostbite and bears. Dwindling fuel. Each frozen step (or the alone-ness) asking, “how badly do you want to stay alive?”

Day 27: Language Barrier

Living with a teen-aged girl feels like an immersion foreign language class. Words are introduced through normal conversation and soon, through repetition and context, one catches on to their meaning and usage. “Salty” is a word I particularly enjoy; my husband is good at using “ratchet” and “savage” unironically.

“Main character” is a term that’s harder to parse. On car trip, while listening to an atmospheric playlist: “This is main character vibes.” A cute, cool girl waiting in the parking lot: “She’s the main character.” I get it, but don’t. Confidence? Groundedness? I catch a whiff, but then it’s gone.

Day 26: Glossy (ALT)

The library in winter smells like our front hall closet,
leather shoes and coats that have dried from rain.
But the magazines in their shiny plastic covers
Crackle like summer with pink lipstick,
Electric blue cars, and sideways glances.
The one I want is as heavy as granny’s Sears Catalog.
I take it to the corner table near Large Print,
Under my arm the way uncles carry bibles.
I flip, study, dog-ear. Every shoulder,
Every neck, every matte mouth and merciless incisor,
Every wool, fur, and drape comforts me.
I’ll choose one to fold, like a ticket,
Into my pocket.