A big party and all our kids were there? I can’t seem to hold myself holding myself. The dying matriarch, her chair at the apartment everyone takes turns sitting at now. Oceans and oceans of that stuff life is made of, painful and joyful and feverish. Her stories echo in the hallways, an oral history of their DNA. And why during this time must we still carry in the mail, mow the lawn, clean the bottle? It’s a cruel thing that time has no stop. My best friend needs to be carried outside. I’ve given him so many kisses and it’s still not enough. We’re the living, responsible for holding the weight of this collective grief. How unprepared I was. How unprepared I’ll ever be! Over there in the yard, a cluster of mushrooms like scattered bronze coins. And to think those are only the fruiting bodies. And the everything else? We really don’t know.
lonelypistachio.com 