(no subject)

[timepiececlock]

My mother just got home, from being at the hospital. She looked so normal and easy and composed, trying so hard to be in control, and she asked me to set the table for the dinner my dad was making. And I did, but I was standing in the kitchen just watching them talk when I just walked out and went to my room, and leaned against my door in the dark and started to cry, because right now all I can think about is being nine and a friend and I sneaking into my room where my grandpa George was sleeping during his visit, and sneaking around his body on the floor, because we thought he was just sleeping and we wanted to get the dress-up box under the bed--and it was early in the morning and an hour later there's people with a gurney and machines rushing in through my front door and my mom is crying and telling saying my friend needs to go home, and that my grandpa's had a stroke. It was a stroke that started the three-years it took him to die, half-paralized and mean and unhappy. And I'm thinking about my grandpa Roland a year and a half ago, lying like a white corspe in his bed while my cousins stand around, part of us knowing that this will be the last time we're all together with him, because he has cancer in his throat from pipe-smoking and now he's slowing starving to death, because he can't eat except liquid and he can't breathe.

And they've called but I can't go out to eat dinner now because I'm still crying because now my grandma Marge is in a hospital too, and she's going die soon, the woman who got me hooked on The X-Files and told me fantastic stories and was going to teach me how dianetics worked and had shook the hand of President Kennedy and never talked to me like a child even when I was one and taught me that chubby fngers are the hands of an artist like my mother and like her mother and in pictures was the most beautiful woman in a wedding I've ever seen.

And I can't stop crying.

Comments

[sweet-ali.livejournal.com]

Sending you sweet thoughts and hugs, my dear.