Daddy Dearest, cut it out. Quit pretending you’re not hungry. Quit nodding off onto your plate of mashed potatoes. Stop getting up in the middle of dinner, saying nothing, wandering away. Stop closing the door to the bathroom, gasping for air, and throwing up nothing. Quit massaging the imaginary tumor in your tummy. You don’t need all the drugs. You don’t need all the attention. You don’t need Mommy to tickle you for hours on end.
Don’t think we buy the sick act. Don’t think we’re going to feel sorry for you. Don’t think we’re falling for the power trip.
Do you really think we believe you spend Fridays at the hospital? We all know you’re off golfing (even though you’ve never golfed in your life) or at the movies (even though you think they’re way too expensive to see in theaters) or eating Indian food (although you hate curry). You look great, anyway, slender as your college self, and you still have your hair. You’re only 58. Stop trying to make like you’re dying, or something. No no, Daddy, you’re not fooling me. You’re not fooling anyone.
***
Sometimes, I rip up tissues and chew them. Sometimes the wads of Kleenex are too big and I feel as though I might choke but I continue chewing till I’m gasping for air.
***
I love you, but I’m punishing you anyway, and punishing you because I love you.
***
Still chewing. My jaw hurts.
***
There are things you don’t know about me. Like this one. Did you know I compulsively chew tissues? Why do I do it? Is there a name for it, for this condition? Is there a label?
***
Sometimes I take the tissue out of my mouth and look at it, wet and shredded. Then I stick it back into my mouth and continue to grind. I should really get over my dislike of gum.
***
Recently, I dreamt a brown bear with claws was living on our porch. It stuck its claws through the door and into my back. I screamed but no one came. Finally, someone -- maybe you, Daddy, or maybe Jeremy -- chopped its claws off and the bear recoiled, but when I saw it later, it still had claws and was strolling contentedly.
***
The weather is getting warmer. The days longer. And when I sit in the sun, with a book and my red Ray Ban sunglasses, and think of all the other sunny days I’ve lived, I realize these days are exactly like those but nothing like those. Nothing at all.
***
I am meandering through an impressionist painting. The slogs to and from the 6 train, the slogs to and from class, the slogs to and from the Envoy office, to and from home, to and from the cancer clinic, all a blur without end, as though there are perpetual smudges on my contact lenses.
I only see the details from afar. Recall them when it’s too late to experience them.
***
I go through the motions. A single motion, really. The attempt to tell tall tales, and then believe the bullshit I spew.
***
I’m living in a memory and for a fantasy.
***
I’m all tangled up in dreams. Caught in a whirlwind of what ifs.
***
If I could, I'd make a deal with the devil.
***
You think I cannot lie, but I do it every day.
Every single day.
***
1 comment:
Your writing is important,you amaze me everyday. I love you.
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