Thursday, August 21, 2014
Again
Monday, January 6, 2014
Lists
Friday, November 4, 2011
Subsided Water
Two weeks later the tarp stayed in place as the flood-water rushed just below it - within inches of the soffit. The contents were swept away – the porcelain water fountain my father installed ripped from the wall and his porch-swing torn from its chains. I took another picture and until I saw it later, I hadn’t realized how much cleaner it looked.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
60 over 24
The movement from the wheelchair to the toilet depleted his strength entirely. He struggled to breathe normally and leaned forward, forearms on his knees, until he gained composure. “I don’t know if I can pull myself out of it this time.” he said. I can’t remember what I said. I hope it doesn’t matter.
Two weeks later, I laid on the couch several feet the temporarily placed bed in the living room. The light from above the kitchen stove scumbled over the contents of the two rooms. Every time he stirred I awoke fully - repeatedly.
The next day at 9:34AM I emailed his blood pressure to myself with my iPhone – I’m not certain why I did this but I found it days later among previously dismissed communications. “60 over 24”
Five hours later, tired from the night before, I closed the door and laid diagonally on my parents’ bed – atop the floral comforter. I like to think I faded to sleep with my father’s fade to death. It was quiet and for both of us, perception slipped away from that perceived.
His death nearly lacked the character of an 'event.' It was just one moment moving to the next - and moving so smoothly that it really could have been any other moment at all. And that is what has changed me most – the striking similarity between that moment and any other since.
Nathaniel woke me. He put his hand on my calf that jutted over the bed’s edge. He shook me slightly and I turned. “He just passed.” he said.
Later he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what words to use.”
His words were perfect and I couldn’t imagine a better person to tell me them. Nathaniel was my older sister’s first child – the first grandchild. I was eleven or twelve years old when he was born and all my life I’ve associated him with youth and potential and life pulled to a new generation.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Years Earlier
The movement was prompted by the spark of a single synapse – the first that would have, years earlier, set off the series necessary to generate the movement that bore meaning – a slight rub in response to a near imperceptible irritant on her cheek just below her right eye. She would have, years earlier, moved gracefully to the next function afforded her by mobility – a push of her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a brush of a hair from her forehead or a settling to her lap and a touch that recognized the insignificant texture of her polyester pants. Instead her hand moved down and away from her face and stopped for a long moment just inside her peripheral vision, and then it vanished. image source
Friday, November 12, 2010
Stream of Consciousness
It typically passes along with the many other transitory mental moments that pop and disappear in the gray dribble between sub consciousness and functional thought. Yesterday it stayed with me though – and it begged contemplation.
I considered the fact that being alone, I am commonly and deeply imbedded in my thoughts when I shower. I wondered if, in some way, I feared just how deeply I could descend - perhaps passing over some ill-defined verge where the everyday would be irretrievable - where it would affect me corporeally and I would dissipate with the steam; “They would know I was in the shower when I disappeared – and that would explain everything. “ I thought.
When I inventoried my thoughts I realized that when I’m in the shower I am not moving intently from notion to notion or employing my time alone in serious contemplation - but rather, I move randomly. One inane thought prompted from the previous and so often just reiterations. The shampoo. The razor. The washcloth flung over the showerhead’s pipe. Perhaps I am afraid I could easily get lost in those thoughts – I would slide away into the familiar and blend into the even grid of the shower stall tiles.
I moved on and opened the bathroom door and chilled dry bedroom air swept in. And then I remembered.
My father was a plumber; I say ‘pipefitter’ to sound more impressive and so does he. Despite – or maybe because of - the complex array of valves and holding tanks, by-passes and heat-traps, he added to the plumbing in the home where I grew up, the system seemed to prioritize a flow of water in manners intent on supplying unpredictable discomfort to everyone involved. Taking a shower with house full of people moving about their day was a risky endeavor. The sudden shifts in pressure and flow seemed to have little connect to the abrupt change in temperature. You could be scalded by a dribble of water, then chilled by the same, assaulted with a blast of high pressure water only to be thrown through a moment of warm comfort to a blast of flesh-searing steam. That is, unless you told some one you were taking a shower.We all knew what it was like so we respected each other’s shower time – though only to a limited extent. We had about 15 minutes before domestic activities involving water would recommence and set off the torturous shifts. If they happened sooner than that, you would hear my Dad yell, “Yeeeeooooww!” from the basement shower or my sister scream down from upstairs, “Could some one turn off the dishwasher!”