|
2007-04-04 || 12:07 p.m. || answering machine || no one is at home and i instantly think they're at the hospital. i imagine my mom being dead for two days and my dad not having brought himself to tell anyone; that kind of logic runs in his family. "i didn't want to upset you" or "i thought it might be better if i just waited until after the funeral." after the lone dad in an empty house image passes i imagine them in target, my mother finally resigning herself to one of those motorized scooters, pointing at throw rugs or sweatshirts and holding out impatient hands, waiting for my dad to throw them into a cart. she'll curse him at checkout for getting the wrong size or not noticing the scent of the dish soap he's chosen. he can't win, but she's started a new hobby of "maybe your second (next)wife will let you _ _ _ _" to somehow ease the bitching. like: "your second wife is going to hate this paint color" and "maybe your second wife will go with you to south america." when i miss them i think of how nice it would be sitting on the couch fighting over daily crossword puzzles. we've xeroxed them in the past when kelly and i were home and all wanted to fill them out. i tend to take them outside and sit at the patio table, listening to birds and the hum of the oxygen machine, filling in each box with my best handwriting until it gets too bright and all i see are spots. we all have sensitive blue eyes. kelly's the only one with perfect vision. mom called a few weeks ago frantic over losing some very old pictures she had taken from gram's collection. after not being able to recover them, getting winded and shaky in the process, she immediately called me, stealer of old photos and sentimental ephemera. i did not have them. they don't sound familiar at all. she's on so much medication she can hardly keep the beginning of a conversation straight, let alone remembering where she stored Very Important Photos from before her health escaped her. we go in circles until i convince her of my innocence, and all i want to do is fly down and rummage through the house and find them for her. even with her standing behind me, breathing. even with her forgetting we've already checked that spot and she never even had those photos in the first place. if it goes on for long enough she'll let me hug her and steer her back to a chair where she can sit and let the urgency of the situation melt away. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |