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I was once taught that we are only what we want. That its only desire that motivates us to move and give shape to our time.
But lots of time is shapeless. And sometimes I feel myself wanting of want.
I walked home from my friends house today.
There's a window behind me right now as I write, so I know it’s still gray out there like it was when I just walked home. Still not quite not quite raining. And I sang on my way home. Let me try to think what I sang.
I know.
It started with leaving a message on Anna’s phone. Anna is my love. Her face fits well in the space near mine is why, mostly. I said to her, “Hello Love. It’s Nicholas. Give me a call when you can. Bye.”
I punctuated the message with periods when I spoke it. But then for the rest of the way home I repeated the message to myself, changing the punctuation.
Hello? Love? It’s Nicholas. Give me a call? When you can. Bye. Hello love! It’s Nicholas. Give me a call! When you can? Bye!
A silly game. Right?
That’s what this feels like, sometimes. Not just this this.
My grandmother died of who knows what. Apathy? She died at 78 after a life. When she died she was shrivled like a cooked shrimp. And underweight.
Before, she was once a tall, wide woman, with vibrant lipstick smeared on her lips and off them, too. She wore bright flower patterned blouses. Sometimes there were made of silk and they stuck to her back in the summer when she visited.
She would yell at her husband all the time.
Really. Yell! With an exclamation mark.
And he was stooped over his canes and very clutzy because he wore braces around his knees.
On his way to fight the Japanese he got sick and collapsed in his cabin. Polio. They met and married after that.
I think he decided early on to put up with her yelling because he felt she put up with his polio. We all have these sicknesses. I suppose.
Anyway, she died. And nobody cared. My dad said, “I’m just sad I never had a mother like yours.”
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