It's Almost Over
I’m just going to pretend I’m not here—it’s so much easier
when the mind unlatches itself. The warm juice of the epidural warms me
like a loving mother. Then the heart shuts
like a mouth under water and there is no
body. I am not at the doctor’s anymore, I am not
waiting for him to come back—I am on the sand—it is easy for the sun to slip
into the dark roots of the sea. The world I see with my eyes are pictures
that don’t have to merge into each other, that don’t turn into a symbiotic
mist. I am young again and I am not afraid of the sun burning
my skin. The sun is here and I am a million years old. The car is parked
on the sand and I have surfed for hours. It is almost night
time and I have all the waves to myself. When the wave pulls me down,
it plays with my hair and my leg rope stays securely attached
like an umbilical cord. I have seen the dissolution
of a whole day. Or maybe it’s already been a life.
The train that pulls off from the station
where I grew up—how it groans to force
locomotion. My mom and dad live in the next
suburb and our life together is already over
even though none of us are really dead.
This skinless wind in January, just after
my dad’s birthday, these birthdays that pass and pass—
I am old enough to understand that this monotony will also end.
The kids have gone back to school and the men become busy
at work. I am walking in my old boots and I am grateful my kids are too
young to realize they are no longer fashionable. The train has left
for the city and I am still here and the wind still blows incoherently.
In the end nothing can prepare you for loneliness
even when you are genetically predisposed to it.