2011-03-18 || 10:05 a.m.
|| From the future ||
I feel like I'm writing a letter to myself from the future.
Your mother will die. You will buy a house. You will have a daughter. It isn't matter of being happy, though you most likely are for the most part.
But, more: your hands will begin to age first. You notice it most while driving early mornings into work, studying the wrinkles that settle between your fingers while hands are splayed across steering wheel. With the loss of your mother and birth of your daughter, you drop all hobbies; or rather: latest hobbies include crying in the car on the way home, making a sport of choosing outfits and dressing in the dark to see the results in the full-length mirror at work (your home will not have any mirrors except the medcine cabinet in teh bathroom and oval mirror placed high in the living room), discovering what you can accomplish with toddler perpetually seated in crook of arm (cook dinner, pee, get in and out of bed, fold laundry, feed cat, shop for shoes, eat most meals). You will stop remembering dreams. You will have an increased urge to record everything: the fast growth of the baby, the changing of the seasons, growing out your hair, stopping believing in ghosts, but will fail to effectively capture any of it. You will stop being able to write. You will make half-hearted attempts at registering for night school art classes.
This: with the loss of your mother and birth of your daughter, you acquire a visceral reaction to the Bad Things and find you can no longer watch certain content on movies and TV (murder, children in danger, extended tension); you change the station on the radio when NPR is reporting on natural disaster (bodies washing ashore in Japan, naked babies in Haiti). You conjure the worst possible scenarios while lying in bed with the baby, waiting for her breathing to change signalling her sleep. You've never been so vulnerable.