I am always reminded of the wealth of words. If in laughter, if in the shrill delight of spinning circles of children afloat on my lobby floor; if even in songs that I cannot understand semantically, but still bring to life little parts of self that lay waiting, awoken only by older expectations.
When I read my father's notes, as I now do, his poetry as impartial as his advice, the softest of harsh honesty, I am filled with longing: to be younger, to hear the words that I wait for in those few sublime moments before really waking, that built me this tall.
When this song begins to play, I am strangely light-hearted, rather than heavy with the nostalgia I know too well. I want to sing, to sidle up to this artist that I remember as apartment companion, curled up against the goldfish and nighttime mint-tea, music videos of war a world ago. Maybe they are not his first words of my native tongue, certainly they are unbitten lies, but they are also those that are known too well: "I have no canons that roar."
I was asked a dozen times today how I am. Before, in a dreamy desperation, I would break into tears; or spurt harsh inaccuracies--'I'm going to die.' Now, however, I do not know what to say. I am trying to maintain a certain numbness, so as not to break; I can only cope with the smallest realities. Ringing that number again and again. Missing moments. I can't touch the real grief, the real roar that arrives before sleep and before waking, that itches and bears its teeth at times. I am frankly far too tired to conquer it now. Instead I shield myself in small ways; not sheltered, but not shattered. Only damp.
There is roaring, however, in the apartment that bears our name. It is almost promise, but somewhat less certain, somewhat less civil. It wakes me up inside. I still belong with him, I know. Not stupidly, but in my own rendition of fiction, I cannot relinquish that smallest piece of hope, of awakening to his laugh, the scent of cigarettes, aftershave and rolled rs. And I know, when I trip on piles of life left untouched, when the whole world stops, suddenly, roughly, raggedly re-arranged. I still belong in his softest heart, his strong embrace, his sneaking smile, now reminiscent in my sister's Riley, our beautiful bearer of better days.
