It’s curious to me how the man I admired yesterday is now someone I sneer at having learned of his indiscretion, and the woman I saw as the underling is rising up like a Phoenix and getting hand, and not too long ago, the woman I thought I was crumbled into a person I wouldn’t even be friends with only to return changed but the same and yet curiously different. And oddly enough last year around this time my anxiety began to build until it crescendo’d into this catastrophic event that didn’t happen and yet now things are so much better and when I spoke with a relative earlier she said she is 100% better than she was last week when the world was splitting apart and she was falling into the cracks, and yet oddly enough the years in me that keep changing me are making me more like me than I was before and yet, I sometimes don’t recognize who I am.
So when I told my niece today that when it’s the darkest the sun is about to come up and she said, my dad said that too, and I said, well my dad said it too, and I realized that my father has been dead for 26 years and there are times I close my eyes and can’t remember what he looked like and yet for years I smelled him and heard him on corners where Spanish men gathered to talk about about what men talk about when they are without women (which I can assure is mostly not about women) and I wonder now through eyes closed where is my father, his memory, his image? Where did it go? Will it return like it did to my mother when she had her first Code Blue and said the first person she saw was my father and it scared the living daylights out of her. Was that a memory or the ICU psychosis that the doctors say happens? It just happens.
I don’t know why I live such a blessed life and yet torture myself over past misconduct almost as if I enjoy licking my war wounds like a dog with a hot spot, or if I just like the fact that my story, the one I am writing, is filled to the brim with drama, intrigue, heart break, heart ache, joy and laughter? What about the hangover that I have from taking a puff of that tobacco when we had a cake here to celebrate my friend’s birthday the other night – really Rachel, was that wise? No wiser than most of the decisions I seem to make in absentia and yet curious indeed that last night I held my bloody dog who has been dead for over a decade and pulled a gun away from an intruder and shot him only to realize there were no bullets in the gun and woke in a sweat to realize it was 79 degrees in our bedroom as we are in between weather but rapidly entering the summer having perhaps bypassed any chance at a prolonged spring.
Right now the curious clouds are gathering over the bayou and the LaLa and with them comes seeds of change, volunteers who show up in your life and plant themselves without any help and you look outside and suddenly see one blooming and say ooh, ahh, my my, where did that come from? Am I dreaming?