(As much as you people must love my lists, that's not the kind of listless I mean. It's pure coincidence that this post doesn't have one.)
My phone showed a missed call. It was Papabiv. Checked voicemail. He's in New England this weekend, the people he's here to see have flaked out on him. He has free time--do I have free time?
I do. Acres of it. None of it is free enough to put myself through another dinner with Dad.
Once I realized this, the tears started coming. That was about an hour and a half ago. Now I can't stop. I spent some time laying on my bed with the music on very loud, my hands uncomfortably pinned behind my back. My bald spot...
Well, I had this literary moment the other day, much like this one, when I thought of my dad's natural baldness, and how my illness is making me more and more like him. Physically. A bald spot.
I have to call him back at some point to tell him I'm too busy to see him. I can't be crying when I call. I've picked up most of the clothes on my floor, sorted them. Played Snood. Back to laying with the hands pinned. Put more clothes away. Sing along with Leela James. Still crying.
2 comments:
I read The Crying of Lot 49 in one or two of Dr Gannon's classes. I don't remember much about Thomas Pynchon ... wait, then again, I don't remember much of anything I might have learned in college.
The sum of my education under Dr. Gannon: I am not worthy of understanding Herman Melville (at least not openly, in class discussion). I did not appreciate that man. Gannon, that is. Although can't say I love Melville either.
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