on vacation in kentucky, lack of posts have valid excuse.
My mother’s too sick to do anything anymore.
My life is falling apart, no good memories from christmas this year.
Holidays are now my option.
Let them be as flowers,
always watered, fed, guarded, admired,
but harnessed to a pot of dirt.
I’d rather be a tall, ugly weed,
clinging on cliffs, like an eagle
wind-wavering above high, jagged rocks.
To have broken through the surface of stone,
to live, to feel exposed to the madness
of the vast, eternal sky.
To be swayed by the breezes of an ancient sea,
carrying my soul, my seed,
beyond the mountains of time or into the abyss of the bizarre.
I’d rather be unseen, and if
then shunned by everyone,
than to be a pleasant-smelling flower,
growing in clusters in the fertile valley,
where they’re praised, handled, and plucked
by greedy, human hands.
I’d rather smell of musty, green stench
than of sweet, fragrant lilac.
If I could stand alone, strong and free,
I’d rather be a tall, ugly weed.
And everyday you continue to do the minimal to connect on any kind of level with her. Then you start thinking about whether she’ll know your name in 3 years. And whether she’ll see you married off or watch your kids grow up. And then you see your dad in his commonplace spot on his side of the bed and you want to believe that you see him crying. You wonder whether it’s worse to see the closest person in the world to you instantaneously dying or gradually seeing them lose themselves. Gradually forgetting everything they’ve ever known about you. I am taking this relationship for granted. I sit on the computer and listen to her laugh to herself in the other room when I should be under her arm.