Drowning

Tonight I'm realizing what a luxury it has been for me to talk about every single aspect of my mom's body. To be so aware of how every single organ is functioning. And, maybe, each time I sit here and write about her heart, her lungs, her liver, her kidneys, her brain, her skin, her breath, her voice--that's me diving inside of her, swimming around, getting to know her. It's the advice I give my students when they're having trouble learning how to closely read a text: dive into the words, swim around them, get to know them. Her body, the text. And I do feel closer to her because of it.

This afternoon when I spoke with her all she wanted was to hold the phone and know that I was on the other end. We didn't say too much to each other--it was hard to understand each other. But what I know is that when my aunt reached out to take the phone from her, she said, "No!" I promised I would call her back again. I did, and she sounded better the second time.

I thought I wasn't going to write for awhile because things have gotten bad. But I've realized that writing about her makes her present to me. Makes her meaningful to me. And she means a lot to me. And I need to know that and believe that--even when she's gone. Even when I don't have this physical, this body, this this this to hold onto.

I might be reticent about talking about things for a little while and I hope you understand. It's just too hard is all. My heart is breaking. But I still need you. I still need you.