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It’s cold. I didn’t think that it would be this cold. I can’t see, but I think the window’s open somewhere.
“Come if you’re coming.”
I’ll be right there.
At first I was worried about the baby, but assured that she’d be fine. Well taken-care-of. She’s so young, but what can you do?
“Come if you’re coming.”
There are things that I thought were important once. Things I had wanted to do and see and have, but now I can’t even remember what those things are. I’m looking around the room and can’t remember where I got this book or that chair. And the things themselves don’t matter any more than stage props. Once I’m gone, they’ll be cleared from the stage and new props will be put in place for the next tenant’s little drama.
But there are other things that I can remember. I remember love. I remember the feeling of it, the calm, airless feeling of it settling into the center of my body. I had that feeling all the time when I was littler. I chased it when I was older, thinking to substitute it with other things. And here it was again. I could feel it. It had been there all the time, squashed down by all the things I had carelessly laid on top of it.
Why? Why did I do that? It’s like leaving a hundred dollar bill on the kitchen counter where it’s covered by the mail and some dirty dishes and somebody’s homework until you’re frantic looking for it, and when you find it, you want to blame everyone else for having obscured it from you. But you left it there yourself.
And there it was. That feeling of being perfect in my emptiness. That feeling of being perfectly strong and limitless, like water or air. That feeling of love.
“Come if you’re coming.”
The statement implies a decision. It’s never too late to say “You go on. I’m staying here.” Well, there is a time when it’s too late, but by that time you’ve already made your choice. I think that most people make the choice before the statement is ever made, but I seem to have been caught unprepared. I have to stop and think about it. I have to weigh this feeling of perfection with things that are even now slipping out of my memory.
I stop breathing so as to fix my mind on what it was that was so important once, to hang on with all of the tendrils of my vine-like being to those things that we cherish when we are ignorant, but as everyone was, is, and ever will be, I am ultimately unsuccessful.

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
hangedwoman
Feb. 11th, 2005 12:15 am (UTC)
Wonderful, and so very you.
blythe025
Feb. 11th, 2005 12:46 am (UTC)
Beautiful.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )