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brigdhFor the last few days it's felt like rain here; the sky thinks of raining or almost rains or is on the verge of beginning to rain, but actual rain has been rare and brief, and cools nothing. Mostly it's just been grey, sun gone behind clouds and the wind lost in the humidity, and the sort of haze that makes everything look far away and unreal, and occasionally there's a roll of thunder that does nothing more than the sound of an airplane. It's not as hot as it has been, but it feels like it regardless; everything looks so grey and misty than any heat is unexpected and unavoidable.
When it does rain, it does it heavily, the sound of water spilling and rushing off roofs and along the ground drowning out any individual drops, and the electricity flickers on and off. Lightning flashes pick out the white patio table in the blackness of night and grass, so for a moment it leaps out in the corner of my vision, vivid white.
My grandmother is dying. Or maybe not. She thinks she is; the opinions of family and doctors differ. But then, she thinks she is, and how much of a placebo effect do you need, if you're already ninety and sick?
I don't know how I feel. The last time someone close to me died, he was only 17, and that was easy to be angry at, because I was already half-furious at the universe for mortality, and this was a blatantly unfair example of it. Now I vacillate between that same anger and sadness and resignation that if she wants to die, it's her own choice, but none of it is as strong as before, as if they could cancel each other out to leave nothing. I don't want to call anyone to talk about it, because I don't have anything to say. I want to do something, or more accurately, I want to want to do something, but what- I don't know. It's like I have only half-starts, and everything else is confusion, or waiting.
When it does rain, it does it heavily, the sound of water spilling and rushing off roofs and along the ground drowning out any individual drops, and the electricity flickers on and off. Lightning flashes pick out the white patio table in the blackness of night and grass, so for a moment it leaps out in the corner of my vision, vivid white.
My grandmother is dying. Or maybe not. She thinks she is; the opinions of family and doctors differ. But then, she thinks she is, and how much of a placebo effect do you need, if you're already ninety and sick?
I don't know how I feel. The last time someone close to me died, he was only 17, and that was easy to be angry at, because I was already half-furious at the universe for mortality, and this was a blatantly unfair example of it. Now I vacillate between that same anger and sadness and resignation that if she wants to die, it's her own choice, but none of it is as strong as before, as if they could cancel each other out to leave nothing. I don't want to call anyone to talk about it, because I don't have anything to say. I want to do something, or more accurately, I want to want to do something, but what- I don't know. It's like I have only half-starts, and everything else is confusion, or waiting.
