We need to have a conversation, ok, perhaps this is going to be one sided, but what does that matter? Nobody ever talks directly to you anyway, it’s always about you, or not about you.
They walk around your name as though it carries a spell like Betelgeuse, nobody asks for the spelling out thrice, or once for that matter despite the obviousness, yes, inescapable, unavoidable, palpable, and wholly disregarded, shunned, tabooed and flat out feared. Yes, you’ve done it. For every life that has been given, hard-wired for survival, hard –headed about failure or that falls hard, you take back, pull up, welcome home, regardless of age-gender-or denomination-circum-stance.
I will tell you something you know, we don’t like change, or when matter changes, yet what matters always changes-but that is a different matter-you are always the same, the final matter, always the last word.
You win. You always win. Maybe loss teaches more than accrual, or at least reminds us what we are looking for.
I thought it was coincidence when I was 20 and all babies in my close proximity knew I was pregnant before I did. It was not happenstance. Have you ever smelled a baby’s head?
When I hit the middle of my life, my kids stepping into adulthood, my parents’ health on a roller coaster, I saw both ends of me, but I was not afraid. I wanted to talk to you about it.
I have smelt death, we don't speak of it for fear that it is contagious like cologne.
A man I love dearly is dearly afraid of you. I told him this explicitly-of course he denies this, but naturally he absorbed some of what I said about you. After not seeking a doctor for 20 years he is planning a much-needed surgery in the next month. I sowed the seeds.
My mother fell (again), broke her hip and fractured her (other) wrist, and at 61 and she is pissed off. She has never had to stop and think.
My step-father has recovered from Leukemia, or is it remission; the revolutionary pill replacing chemotherapy for him was approved by the FDA on my birthday. He said this was lucky.
My ex-husband decided he need not pay for his children anymore. And after I have raised them myself he says, “What’s fair is fair,” and “Get busy living or get busy dying”. At over forty he lives with his grandmother, mother and cousin on the same property, he has never left that tiny nest. Days later after he cut his financial chord his grandmother fell, broke her hip, fractured her ankle and had a small stroke. At 94. She’s still here, and angry as ever.
Royalty-the Prince-and Bowie-Boom!
Baby boomers are all exploding, imploding from natural causes they say...Well, there are more celebrities today-that’s why-and still nobody gossips about you. Bigger than the Pope. You’re nothing new-I guess-does Death have a Twitter? I guess discussing you is still taboo.
Instead, let’s talk about what was done, what we did, the past and the passing of time. By passing the time this way, time becomes ours again to manipulate and postulate. Nostalgia is nectar to remember something new(ly), better than was-and is-and is needs was. I was here and in such and such year. It proves our is-ness.
I trust you
will be on time.
And I hear you knocking, and I am home, I will answer. Invite you in. We can talk…heart to heart.
Tell me why you never explain-yourself-or tell us about where you are from and where you are taking us. Perhaps if you’d simply explain the part you know- the part that says, the more you sow the more you reap, I won't say a peep.
This thing called life is a loan and not mine to keep, guitars gently weep the notes dictated from your morbid humming, some think it’s beautiful and that is because they’ve read your notes all along, they know the song, a lull to bye, but just forgot the words.
If this is all a game of Hide and Seek to you, suicides and confessions, seconds and hours, chances and misses, I would say peek-a-boo-I am looking at you-and might say-winner takes all.
Image By Pryse, Gerald Spencer, 1882- [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
