You'll Never

he you, inside
you’ll never scream for life, you’ll never
you’ll never breathe
you aren’t
you’re never, and yet
i saw your head your slug-like, wormy
shape, armed and legged,
a salamander

the you, inside
you’ll never grow a heart, you’ll never
beat or move, kick, slap, swallow
you weren’t
you’re never, and yet
i still await you, in pieces, to exit
to continue nonexistence
on the outside

the you, inside
traps me with death, reminds me you’ll never
be wrenched from a hospital bed
you can’t
you’re never, and yet
cradled, the you, inside stays cuddled,
i suffer for ways you’ll never be held
because you’re not

you’ll never

May 20, 2007

May 21, 2007
He’s bent in concentration, rather pointedly ignoring the Labrador until its owner allows it to ram a wet nose into the man’s behind. Awkwardly, he dips further towards the ground, knees creaking, twisting painfully to the left to glare spitefully as the pet’s owner mumbles an apology and speeds past. “Who does this? I would never allow Frank to do that. People these days. So rude,” he’s thinking out loud. From a distance it’s unclear whether he’s talking to the rapidly fading walker or to himself or to the plants he’s gently pruning around his lamppost. He pulls a length of rope from his pocket as he twists the stem of the clematis closer to the post, clamps it with one hand, and swings the rope around it to fasten it tight. He works his way up the post this way, grumbling. “This neighborhood. These kids moving in nowadays. Don’t take care of anything. Hire someone to mow the lawn. Why can’t he mow the lawn? His legs broken? Dandelions popping up all over. Leaves blowing into my yard. Damn dog poop all over the sidewalks.” He resumes his bent position, preening through the ivy to pull dead leaves, pave the way for his tulip tips to poke up through the earth. “I’ll be mowing this yard until my legs don’t work. Why should I pay someone $20 a week for the privilege of using my own lawn mower to mow my own grass? ‘It would be easier on you, dad’, hurrmph. Plbbbt. Easier for who? It’s half of my exercise. Take away my exercise and then I have to join the Y.M.C.A. or whatnot to take those fancy classes where they sit in chairs and tap their feet to music. Oh, and they’d charge me for that privilege too. Nothing free anymore. Used to be that all the goods things were. Pretty soon they’ll charge me to walk up my own block. Sidewalk fee or something, they’ll call it.” A sudden wind rustles the trees and blows his weed pile back into the ivy. He laughs, looks up at the sky, “It’s always something.”

April 9, 2007

I’m going to be like this when I’m old. When I’m older. I’m going to meet my friends here in the corner of the coffee shop and laugh loudly about politics with people who call me by my last name. Each group member is verbally accosted as the door swings open, while they’re still bleary-eyed, brushing sleep from the edges of their faces with crinkled, claw-like hands. Old man voices with their dulled edges still reach shrilly into high-pitched giggles as they whisper about grandkids, kids, wives. Nobody here talks shop. It’s not about what you do anymore or what you did. It’s about the yard and the family and railroad car collections and coffee. Most of all the news. Who knew the weather was an obligatory topic.

I feel squeezed into their group by proximity alone. If my grandfather’s name had been Merlin, I’d have secretly watched him, certain the wizard within would poke out at an odd moment. I’d have searched closets for a hidden pointy hat, checked drawers for a wand. It would have been creepy to have me for a granddaughter, always peering around corners, hoping to catch him warming macaroni with his eyes or waving the lawn mower through the yard with the power of a charmed stick. Instead, I smirk at my computer, knowing Merlin truly is magical regardless. He’s a wizard of smiles, carrying a coffee mug smothered in family photos, presenting himself to the world each day ready to laugh. His gravelly voice expands his crinkled frame, a spell of kindness, good-heartedness, washing over me.

April 6, 2007

Slowly, steadily, the dewy palms slip forward on the mat, tipping her head forward too far, stretching her neck, swan-like, toward the cool, cork floor. She self-consciously pulls them back, right first then left, readjusting her feet as well, hoping no one can see her downward dog floundering, flailing towards cow pose. But they too are concentrating, sweating, uncomfortable. In front of her the self-conscious woman with an enormous and perfectly round potbelly is trying to suck it in from where it rests on her thigh during warrior, but her sucking takes away from her breathing and inevitably it puffs back out to nap on her leg. She wears an eighties sweat band to ward off the dripping that embarrassed her previously during this power yoga course. The 90 degree room touches the skin with heat outside while the poses burn from the inside. Perhaps it does torch the calories, she thinks, optimistically, as her legs begins to ache, spasmodically, the muscle twitches becoming apparent, to her embarrassment. She unfolds her leg, feigning a loss of balance, shaking it briefly before bending again back into the pose. It is so quiet she can concentrate on the path rivulets of sweat make down her back, winding around shoulder blades to hit her spine, then straight down to pool above the waist band of her pants. Her eyes are closed, she focuses on her relief that she’s worn polyester rather than cotton pants. No pools of moisture showing through, embarrassing pee lines except in her underwear, which feels soaked through even now. When they bend back into another warrior variation, she glances at the clock. Twenty minutes to go. legs shaking obviously now, she’s relieved to sit down, takes her time crossing her legs perfectly before twisting her prayer arms to the side, sucking in her belly. On this side the woman is barely turned, and she watches the instructor move the woman’s arms outside of her knees, touch her belly for focus. Ew, touching when we’re that sweaty.

March 22, 2007

Angrily, she glares, arms crossed, muscles tightening across her chest. She’s screaming inwardly, burying him in the back yard underneath the strawberries, which grow wildly the following spring due to the unexpectedly excellent fertilizer. She’s sure she could do better the next time. Why does he look at her this way? She’s not unreasonable. She’s not. But it’s okay to question, especially something silly. “Why can’t you just say ‘okay’” is a wholly unreasonable request. Why can’t he say “Okay, I’ll clean the bathroom your way this time so it gets fully clean” or “Okay, I’ll actually come home at 5:30 instead of pretending that I left the office on time and traffic was horrible” or “Okay, let’s go where you want tonight.” Why is it only silly if she questions it? She has proof, written down and approved in writing, that her request isn’t lame or unsupported or illogical. And then, just as it seems he’s cornered, he’s off to the money topic. He wins the money side, hands down. She’s not the provider. Never was, but definitely not now. When it comes to being “preventative,” he rules the game. He corners her on the “what will happen if” question, and she’s trapped, unnecessarily. These rules suck. Who makes them? It’s impossible to back down now because technically neither of them are “wrong,” but why move forward if nobody wins? Why is it wrong that she’s equally stubborn? And then it’s her fault that the argument is stupid. She doesn’t feel badly, however. An instinctive grin sneaks across her face, leftover from high school pranking and generations of naughtiness. It’s evil, she knows, and entirely frustrating, but the game slides over to her side. Winning is nice, she remembers from long, long ago — long before him. She wonders how it would feel again. Does anyone ever really say “You were right, I was wrong” aloud? She knows she hasn’t heard it, at least not as memory serves, and that seems a phrase she’d recall. Fiction is more powerful than reality sometimes. And the reality is that he slams the door, powerfully, and she runs to the bedroom, and, with a deep breath, buries her face in the mattress and screams, her voice muffled, as long as she can.

Blinking slowly

My secrets glare up from an 8.5 x 11” sheet of paper, questions I answer slowly, methodically, happy to know the answers as this, the biggest question, looms. I write thickly, pressing deep into the paper with my felt-tipped pen, watching the ink seep into the pores of the page. It’s satisfying, the progression, and a way to pass the time unthinking, unafraid. In moments, I will be opening to him, a guided tour of labyrinthine folds and private space. I am not quite ready, and so I write slowly.

The last few moments are up and I walk to the glass pane, pulled sharply aside by the nurse with a flowered scrub tub and unsmiling eyes, hand in my pages and return to my chair, silent. I don’t need affirmation about these things. Do you think I haven’t gone through everything before? Do you actually think you are bringing up new points for me to consider? I wish I were a stone. I shield my face from this person who walked in with me, held my hand, told me I could always change my mind. I cannot change my mind. It’s not even a decision I had to make, but an obvious conclusion to a catastrophe. I didn’t know it would hurt everyone this much, so I am determined not to let it hurt me. She grabs my hand as I compose my face, squeezes it I-Love-You, just three times, smiles reassuringly, I think. I squeeze back, smiling too.

A door to the long hallway of more doors with charts and labels pushes open into this room of waiting chairs, some empty, some filled with people huddled over their own forms, some squished together as couples lean into each other. “Marie,” the nurse calls, and I am instantly relieved. I push my face against my sister’s shoulder, huddle into her like I used to on long car trips when she sat in the middle to keep the peace. She pats my head easily, plays absentmindedly with my hair as she reads the book she brought along. I am not sure whether she’s reading for fun or to forget about me, about where we are and what I’m doing, how she has to play along. What if she is only playing along? I blink hard to shut it off, and then the nurse pokes through again for me.

December 6

I awoke powered by a vision, or, rather, empowered. It was clear what I needed to do.

With the calm deference of a sage, I opened my computer and wrote an email, detailing the moves I needed to make in order. The stage was set. I sat, cross-legged, in my armed chair and spun around once for fun and again for luck. I would never sit there again. Opening my email program, I set an auto-responder for the address I once used for work. Check. Then I recorded a new voicemail message on the office mailbox. Done.

I was feeling lighter and sort-of floaty with each completed task. This would be a fantastic journey. As I piled my things into a post office carrier, stolen from the mailroom, co-workers began to take note of my impending flight. They did not inquire directly, but gathered near the doors of cubicles, continuing phone conversations with stretched cords or attending to some hallway filing problems. I began to hum softly, the dwarves song from "Snow White." Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go, which was ironic because that's not where I was going at all.

My checklist was halfway done now. With my box piled high, I dropped a few folders on the now-empty desk, picked up a sharpie. Grabbing a lone piece of white paper from the printer just to the left in the hallway, I wrote "goodbye" and taped the page to my computer monitor. Done.

I made my way to the door without speaking to anyone, dropped my identity badge, security tags and office keys at the rear entrance, and walked to my car. The drive home was like being on drugs, euphoria and rainbows everywhere. Tears well in my eyes thinking back on this occasion. The beginning. I felt driven to make the most of my choices from now on.

Here I sit, thirteen months later, about to walk back into the ugly beast I left. And I feel proud that I made that choice, still, even after all the failures that have occured since. But I do not want them to know they've affected me like this. I want to be a stone.