Yesterdays like today have got me thinking I should write a will. Looking back on my days, there is a paucity of the stuff life is made of and a foibled visage of battle. Much like the robust puff of pastel cotton candy, the carnival of my health disintegrated once greeting the tongue of illness. The sweet granules of sparkle that glittered within a child brimming with golden fringe were swallowed and never to be seen again.
I hereby bequeath my…ginger haired- guinea pig? College diploma? Seashell speckled photo frame to…. whom? My eyes scan a room scarce with belongings, but trinkets are not the flavor of accolades I’m after. My gaze pauses on my mother who is perched on the rumpled corner of my bed. Within her, the skeleton of a hallowed tree trunk mirrors back at me, contrasting with the patient outpouring of love that seems never to ebb. It flows on and on, a paragon of consistency among a trove of trauma.
Should I end up in a critical state, in the last place a sick person like me belongs; call nobody, I inform her. Later, on my own I will permit myself a slice of heartache cake over the fact that this is the type of conversation we are having. Somewhere in another wrinkle of reality, she and I are preening over the sprouting seed in my belly, recollecting the barefoot reverie of my beach nuptials to the kind of man she always dreamed I’d come to know. We are permitted the privilege of warbling on about things, factoids, I cannot even fathom that instead of orbiting a need to cling to this life’s landscape, roll on across a measured terrain.
“Are you sure?”, her cerulean irises gaze up at me, adorned by twin fans of full lashes. A name blinks over my mind, throbbing like the neon pulse of a crosswalk sign. I blink once, twice, three times, attempting to swipe the windshield of my outlook clear. Like the stubborn lever on my childhood etch-a-sketch, the wiper stalls, leaving a shadowed drip of a name.
“I can’t live through that twice”, I say. A tumble of forbidden memories rises like a ghost from a grave, my almost grave. I need not to elaborate further, but I do. “I can’t have you call that person only for him not to come.” The words lack emotion, rising from me as an afterthought, disappearing like trellises of bubbles as they mix with the air.
Again, the name whooshes over me, more insistent as the letters seem to animate with texture. Before I can banish them, a bludgeoning like a searchlight strobes over me, brandishing weapons cloaked in invisibility as the looming blows begin to take shape. Accustomed to the assaults that inch in upon me like spells, I resolve not to capitulate. No matter the vigor of my defense, though, I know that the forces upon me, inside of me, have got me like a loaded gun. Truce, I want to yell, to holler at a decibel reserved for fire alarms. TRUCE! Lets stop this demolition. Get out of my life; I don’t belong to you.
It’s too late, though, this round leans and slopes in their favor and I am too many toos to yell. My eyes grow hot, burn from pupil to lashes and I stare emptily at the stark canvas ahead. If these walls could talk, they would cry instead. Big, sloppy tears of surrender. Because I can’t anymore. I’ve got nothing, nothing but yesterdays like today and today’s like tomorrow.