Knowing She Would

I once had a girl
or should I say
she once had me...

Sometimes my body is so heavy with sleep that I sink down on the bed and disappear for a while. No words, no sounds penetrate the thick mist...and it aches, a pleasant ache and it's so wonderful, this ache being assuaged, finally...after a long drive into Kajang, a long meandering interview that went nowhere (I don't really know, will have to sift through the recording to find out if he did in fact manage to say something interesting in the whole 90 minutes) and a long drive back in the fading twilight pushing through traffic-clogged streets.

To come home to tea (why is tea always so comforting) and hazelnut chocolate cookies and then, to sleep, sleep, sleep, perchance to dream. I did dream, I think. Auntie Leela was there. Soft spoken and sweet, she's now dead. Two small children, a law practice and breast cancer. A strident mother-in-law, who never quite took to her.

Words, words, words...and her little daughter running to hide under a table as they removed the body from the house. Words, words, words.

Auntie Ann says, painful. Auntie Ann says, one of these days I'll have to talk to her about it. Holding all her pain in her little body. Fending off her loud grandmother and weeping at night, when nobody's listening, for her soft-spoken mother.

I nodded, not having seen the girl. I hadn't spoken to Auntie Leela in years. I hadn't known she was sick. And when she died, it was final. A fullstop. There is nothing quite so final as death. There was no I'm sorry, there was no goodbye. Just two small children, holding their father's hands, looking lost, looking forlorn.

Nothing would ever be the same again, of course. Everyone else falls into routine, everyone else forgets, everyone else expects you to forget, to get over it, to move on.

You never do. (If you accept this, you'll get a lot further than if you expect to)

And then I came up for air. Awake. And wondered what to do. There was much. Maybe I would start with all the stuff the concessionaires had provided. Words. Words. Words. Technical words that couldn't be sexy if they put on a leotard and draped themselves around a pole, slick with sweat.

Steamy.

Slick.

Slimy.

Ooze.

and when I awoke
I was alone
whispered a fool
so I lit a fire
isn't it good
Norwegian wood....