my father exhorted me to find the spiritual side of puking. i had to hang up because he started to make me nauseas. we’ve been a little sick around here.
it has been staggering outside. the blue blinds and the green dizzies. the sun highlighting everything. it’s too much for a sick one. the weak one barely makes it on the front porch and looks around, goes in where things are lit, but with corners of dim. after conferring with her doctor and chopping up a soup, her mother tells her to go lay down. she does. but she brings her laptop.
the walls of my bedroom are pink. there’s a large canvas painted by my husband’s best man that has a milk jug as it’s central subject. windows are open wide and spring blows in cool as cucumber. i hear voices. my mother, come over to help me. one small woman staring up into a wide sky. hugging me, i feel her frame and hear her heart. she is soft as a cross between air and liquid. she once was both for me. i hear eleanor calling, “abe - e!” her love for a big brother trumped only by her love for daddy. momma last on her list before the cat. that’s fine with me. and abraham’s voice, still high. it may be true that one day it will crack and alter and become deep baritone, but i don’t believe it.
all this from my bed with nothing to do but rest. it’s hard to rest. but apparently i need to.
~z
