Splinter: Day Two Hundred Fourteen

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Writing – am I supposed to write about my grandmother’s funeral. I know I am. I will. I just note for the record that I am writing this on time. I am here, on this earth, I am human. Not so much dancer though I am wont to try. I am a feeling creature. I am not just stalling for words but struggling towards some sort of meaning which is hell on a day like this when you find yourself constantly imagining that you are beyond and above the fray but discovering when you stop the images and take on what is happening to you, that you are right in the fray, you are one of the combatants and here you are, struggling to win this prize you don’t understand if you even want.

….

Language is failing me and I am only distraction. I am unable to even focus to do this. How, how, do I focus and tell me how I talk about this thing that we did today? How do I find myself talking about student loan debt in this country when I can’t even spell country right. I have a map.

We are talking and sleeping and doing. I am tired. I saw my grandmother’s body in the casket and I didn’t tell my sister, though I could have, that her nailpolish matched the casket. I did tell everyone only because it was obvious that my grandmother looked beautiful. I cried. It was impossible not to. It was very odd that our family was there, collectively mourning, when don’t collectively emote or feel about anything. It was also nice, to be alone in the room, our hearts overflowing together. And then, we gathered ourselves up because our family is our family and we relaxed.

My father cried today. This is worthy of note. He was telling us about how he waited for my grandfather to fall asleep after they learned that my grandmother had passed away to bring in the clothes that the nursing home gave him back so he could hang up her clothes. My grandfather, though, remains with humor and grace. Stoic as ever, but also, of course, he talks about this wasn’t the plan. The plan was for my grandfather with his diabetes and macular degneration to pass first and this would mean that my grandmother could be moved with her sisters to an apartment in town and then my uncle could find another place while they liquidated the farm. It would have been organized, like my grandmother, just so. But it didn’t happen that way, and they don’t have any particular reason why it happened this way. And in the absence of organization, we feel a bit adrift, fumbling at something that was always meant to be left in better hands.

I am thinking about digging out my copy of the Room. I am thinking that this is a really profound and insightful way to end the evening. But I think it’s not here. So here will have to do.

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