Seven Years Later

Time passes. Edges that once were so sharp are softened. Memories fade, the pain and the tears subside.

It does not mean you are forgotten.

Super Moon

All day this sense of unease. Tears always on the verge of breaking, emotional walls no doubt softened by the arrival of those babies, the burgeoning life in the ground, and the way orphan puppy prances in the sunlight now even though no one gave her more than days. Unnamed feelings swirl through my innards and it is not until much later that I curl up in the privacy of my own room, in my own solitude, that words begin to form, labeling emotions and stowing them away in neatly organized compartments in my journal.

I needn't bore you with the details of what those emotions amounted to, the language they created. In the end, I suppose, it comes down to getting one's shit together. Take a deep breath, start over, get it right. Life is short, but we are never too old to do ourselves justice.

It seems like I should be fighting like hell.

Attached

Trains never run proper on weekends; I found myself upended on the far end of Bleecker street, and the torrential downpour followed me home. Restaurants along Bleecker stood empty in the rain, but the line outside Poisson Rouge stretched around the block. We pick our battles. In Brooklyn, the windows shuddered from the storm, but the company was worth the trek. We pick our battles, indeed.

As I turned the corner on Morton, I found myself slowing down, reluctant to return home and hear the news of Orphan Puppy's condition. The morning had seen a setback and we were again reminded of Reality, of Mortality. But when I got home, her wagging tail and eager eyes reassured me, bought us another day.

Faced with mortality, every day lived is another battle won.

Repose

Suddenly, she eats. Devours entire slices of smoked turkey deli meat and triple cream cheese from a Brooklyn co-op. It brightens her eyes and perks her walk. We skip down Leroy Street in the sunshine and death feels so far away. Lurking around the corner, certainly, but no longer entrenched in every breath. Friends come to visit her, my sister calls to say goodnight via webcam; everyone wants to spread the love into every available space in her tiny body. We rejoice in the good moments, smother her in five times as many embraces as before.

But it is not that which is truly the best part of getting these last few days with her. The best part is when I wake up in the morning and stumble into the kitchen to make my coffee, and I see her lying there in her bed under my chair, nuzzled into her blanket like so many mornings before. It is turning a corner and seeing her great big eyes stare up at me before she pitter-patters away down the corridor in search of new adventure. It is all those normal moments that have become routine, that have become a part of our home. It is that which will be so empty, once she is no longer there to fill it, that I truly cherish now.

Absorb the everyday magic. It is that which makes up your life.

And In the End

Orphan puppy sleeps. I put my hand on her body to make sure she is still breathing. Wrap us both in my blankets and try my hardest to fill her tiny body with my warmth and my love. Make the best of this last time that she has.

I am already exhausted from the day's emotional exertion. My heart is lead, my eyes brimming with tears at every turn. We sit at the kitchen table discussing our ideas of death, of love and loss, of the life after. We don't agree on any of the topics, but today it doesn't matter. We are making the best of this last time that we have.

Everytime she stirs, I am grateful. Everytime she looks up, walks across the floor, sees that she is home. It's another hour we get to spend with her.

Life is precious. The reminder is painful, but it springs little blossoms of joy in my heart. Precious. We should all be so grateful.

Epitome

Fates conspire against us. Great yellow machines dig up Leroy Street and cut all our cables; we live the week without connections and I can't decide if I miss it.

Orphan puppy spends another night at the hospital. There is an empty space where her three pounds used to lie, and we don't know if she'll ever curl up there again. I miss the patter of her feet on the hardwood floor, the softness of her inquisitive affection against the groove of my neck. The thought that she is spending her last days among strangers breaks our hearts and we long to take her home, if only for a few last moments of peace.

Life is precious. We must remember to be grateful for what we have, and make the most of what we can get out of it. The weather clears. March beckons on the horizon.

How heavy my heart, tonight.

On Domesticity

It occurred to me recently
that I am very close
to being but a year and a half from 30.
And though I realize that 30
is the new 20
it still scared the shit out of me.

Somewhere along the line
I promised myself
I'd have my life in order by then.
You know,
grown up,
gotten a job,
gotten back on the right track.

Tonight I contemplated the baby
growing in my dear friend's belly
and the ridiculous commercials
of homemaker women
whose lives seem composed
of lunch boxes
and air fresheners
and minivans

and I know I imagine that life
to be
so much simpler than it possibly could,
but God
some nights
it's awful tempting,
nonetheless.

Tides

And then the clouds cleared, the sun returned and all was well with the world. I forgot my concerns, my impatient pacings around the living room carpet, and threw myself into the sea again with a laugh. We sat on the neighbors' balcony and let the sun set over the beach, over the cicadas in the bush; I forgot there was ever rain.

But sleep was short, before the storm raged through my open windows and woke me. Hours pass and I find no rest. My teeth worry me, my life worries me. I am wide awake and hungry.

It's such a cliché. How my mood rises and falls with the movements of the clouds. I hang on for dear life.

What other option is there?