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carose59I think I will learn the Latin name of every songbird, not only in
America but wherever they sing.*
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I'm crying because I know that, if she came back tomorrow, I would still be the same selfish bitch I've always been, that this is who I am, a once—and—future failure.
I'm crying because I know it's my fault she's dead, and if she came back, I would still want to go out every day, away from her to walk and talk to myself. I wouldn't stop being selfish, even if God gave her back. If she came back, I would just kill her again. I know this, and I hate myself for it.
I'm crying because I wasted so much time with other people, because I was mean to her, because I was scared so much, because my neurosis got in the way of me opening up, because I hid from her, because—
You know how in French Kiss Meg Ryan suggests she and Timothy Hutton chainsaw their sofa down the middle as a way of evenly dividing their stuff? I'm crying because that's what's happened to all of my stuff. Chainsawed right down the middle, and even though both pieces are right there, they're not fixable.
She used to sing to the cats, songs she made up for them. I tell them now, "Mommy—the good mommy—is in heaven." We argued over who the good mommy was.
She used to—when there was something strange or funny on TV that she wanted to ask me about, she'd raise her hand like JT in Return of the Secaucus 7, when they're playing school. "Mr. Donnelly?" she'd ask, and I'd say, "Yes, JT?" And then she'd ask me things like why it was all right to chase park squirrels and not street squirrels, or any one of a million silly questions that I would then make up pseudo—serious answers to.
Except sometimes I was tired, or I had stuff that had to get done. Tuesday I was in the kitchen crying because I was in the kitchen, cutting up the catfish for the stew and I wanted it done fast so I just stood there, cutting it up instead of dragging everything out to the living room so I could do it where Pat was, so we could be together. Crying about doing it even now when—well, yes, she is in the living room, but in a plastic bag and a cardboard box. Crying about every time it seemed important to get something done away from her—sorting laundry in the backyard because the weather was pretty and I liked being out in it, instead of taking it in and being with her, crying about going out to talk to the flowers, leaving her alone—
parting is all we know of heaven
and all we need of hell (Emily Dickinson)
How could I leave her alone so much? Is that why she's left me alone? Does she still love me at all, at all?
*Intention to Escape from Him, Edna St. Vincent Millay
America but wherever they sing.*
-:- -:- -:-
I'm crying because I know that, if she came back tomorrow, I would still be the same selfish bitch I've always been, that this is who I am, a once—and—future failure.
I'm crying because I know it's my fault she's dead, and if she came back, I would still want to go out every day, away from her to walk and talk to myself. I wouldn't stop being selfish, even if God gave her back. If she came back, I would just kill her again. I know this, and I hate myself for it.
I'm crying because I wasted so much time with other people, because I was mean to her, because I was scared so much, because my neurosis got in the way of me opening up, because I hid from her, because—
You know how in French Kiss Meg Ryan suggests she and Timothy Hutton chainsaw their sofa down the middle as a way of evenly dividing their stuff? I'm crying because that's what's happened to all of my stuff. Chainsawed right down the middle, and even though both pieces are right there, they're not fixable.
She used to sing to the cats, songs she made up for them. I tell them now, "Mommy—the good mommy—is in heaven." We argued over who the good mommy was.
She used to—when there was something strange or funny on TV that she wanted to ask me about, she'd raise her hand like JT in Return of the Secaucus 7, when they're playing school. "Mr. Donnelly?" she'd ask, and I'd say, "Yes, JT?" And then she'd ask me things like why it was all right to chase park squirrels and not street squirrels, or any one of a million silly questions that I would then make up pseudo—serious answers to.
Except sometimes I was tired, or I had stuff that had to get done. Tuesday I was in the kitchen crying because I was in the kitchen, cutting up the catfish for the stew and I wanted it done fast so I just stood there, cutting it up instead of dragging everything out to the living room so I could do it where Pat was, so we could be together. Crying about doing it even now when—well, yes, she is in the living room, but in a plastic bag and a cardboard box. Crying about every time it seemed important to get something done away from her—sorting laundry in the backyard because the weather was pretty and I liked being out in it, instead of taking it in and being with her, crying about going out to talk to the flowers, leaving her alone—
parting is all we know of heaven
and all we need of hell (Emily Dickinson)
How could I leave her alone so much? Is that why she's left me alone? Does she still love me at all, at all?
*Intention to Escape from Him, Edna St. Vincent Millay