I keep writing but I fail as soon as the pen hits the page. I fail to describe what the dark hospital room felt like when you fell into dimentia and begged us to not let them take the baby you didn't have. Scars now giving new form to your body where the cancer was supposed to have been removed. I cant grasp in words what it meant to see strength close its eyes and desert the body while it still breathed, skinny, motionless, empty, all but the sound of your loud open-mouthed breathing. Watching you, I waited for you to die. And when that call finally came, the one night I went home, that ring at 3am was all I needed to hear, to know it was finished.
They washed your body, your mother and your sister, and laid you on the bed, arms crossed over chest, the silence, the calm, how it filled everyone. Did I ever really know you?
I wish I dreamt of you more often, then I could I feel your hands massaging my hands, my feet,
painting my fingernails even though I despised the decoration. So much of me has ceased to flow. How many lives did you touch? You were the very definition of Community.
Death makes perfect sense to me. It is the effects of it upon the living that I cant understand.
Mourning is too simple, it is a change in perception, a fog that has risen, a perpetually burning city that no liquid, no hope, no senses, can put out. The day of reconstruction is unclear and ressurection holds no weight.
When the bell jar descends and I can't imagine my life without it's tar-like existance I can't help but wonder if you felt the weight of it's oppression, the oppression of our social constructs,
and that is why you fought so hard. What battles did you fight inside to become who you were?
I stand on the periphery of dawn because this mountain blocks my view,
my passage, my road to the Ascents.
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