The Life of You
24 hours to the day we had that talk, you and me. The one I always dreaded, the one you never wanted to have but always tried to. What constitutes the end, the life force, exactly what is it you're going to give up? Of course, I didn't have the answer and you didn't ask the question and somehow all of a sudden we were having this conversation that was so final, so irreversible, so irreconciliable. How can you have a conversation like that with your parent, with the one who gave birth to you? With no conclusion, only silence that is deafening and then the knowing. Of the end. To this day I can't totally accept it but I will try and keep on trying and that's all I can ask for. To you, mother of my invention, to you, my love always.
When your last parent dies, your childhood is in limbo, frozen in time and space. There's a hole that used to be filled with aggravation, frustration, guilt that you couldn't make things right, love when it seemed there was never enough. A hole so cavernous there is no bottom, a hole around which the turbulence roils, unable to penetrate the emptiness. A hole so dark that the stillness of the night brings such clarity that sleep is elusive and the memory of those final days is relived over and over again.