i was born backwards, filling tea cups at birth with earl grey. i was a resting stone for mother at his disappearance. i sat in the river wherever she needed. i blocked the downstream from dragging her. it isn't so much about losing, it's about purpose. it isn't about sadness, it is about purpose. if i was a knife all of my life and found a fork with a sharp edge takes care of me, what now? do i become an instrument? a drum stick?
when you are old, you are used to things. it is crueler to be used to. it is crueler to be taken from what you are used to, before you can remember. it is crueler when you recognize the future, rather than asking to be taken in a friend's backyard sit on the swings in a sun shower. i had snow cone all over me when dad died. it isn't about getting better, it's about purpose. i'm glad i didn't have to watch. i recognize the future. i see my mother dying. i watched. the sun does come out again, but does it hit your face the same way? it isn't about a bright future, it is about blood letting, a leach sucking it out. we move on, but it does not move from us. no, not so easily.