I’m trying to get to the truth of what I feel so I can write it, maybe turn it into something I can refer to for future reference. Something that might cut deep in a pinch and make my deep-down wound more visceral.
I worry about me. How I’m not able to cry. Not like Mommie who is able. She is doing so silently now in the backseat under cover of Kanye. I am driving and rapping along badly like a clown trying to recapture the buoyancy we all felt when we first struck out west for Michigan and reunion, towards my cousin’s house where my mother’s sister would be older and frailer than I was prepared for, with hands that shake so badly when I hand her a glass of water it takes real effort not to reach out and hold it up to her lips.
But this isn’t a frailty my mother, sisters and I haven’t seen before. Haven’t lived with and hugged close, holding our collective breath while the one we loved had to focus on each one he took. Without PETscan or biopsy I can see the cancer that is lining the walls of my aunt’s lungs in the soft “whew whew” of her breaths and the determined way she bares her teeth. To me she looks just like Daddy as she closes her eyes for a long time when we aren’t engaging her in what must seem like such silly conversation when you’re being a fucking gladiator, feebly trying to draw her back from it to us, not ready to give in.
I’ll let Tweedy take us out: