It was raining, soft, speckled drops on your windshield as you took me down that freeway towards our other homes. You are generous with your words, and your hugs, and I know you are different because you seem more free. Or is it more eager to show that you are free?
It is a waiting room, this great case that we are in, under a globe of unknown. We know that we draw out the grief when we leave, but there is no other option, is there?
I have been reading about Frida, and about the stories between those plasters of color and the rumors sucked in between newspaper stained hands and the terror that was the unknown. When do we get held down — that polio-twisted leg, the metal plates in your back, the physical ramifications of a car crash too many regrets ago? And should we then nurse all that we are losing (the shaking arm, the frozen tendons, the way your back refuses to unbend itself and just lie flat), or move towards the today that is stretched in front of us, like a terrorizing, exhilarating canvas of possibility. I cannot tell you how to live. I do not know what it is like to live in your body. I just want to love you, without you thinking I forgot to.
