“The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage.” Jack London
Jack London’s writing style was fresh and descriptive. Given his penchant for writing about the natural world, I enjoyed reading his work. And life is full of those moments when something sneaks up on you and bites you somewhere that gets your attention. I’ve been experiencing spurts of those moments.
While visiting my 96 year old mom at her assisted living facility the other day, I experienced a moment of empathy for Wile E. Coyote when struck by an anvil courtesy of the Roadrunner. (A point on your average if the “beep beep” just sounded in your head.) She had discovered some pages from an old address book and was reading the names aloud to me.
For most of them, there was no longer a connection in her memory to those names. Finally she looked at me and said, “They’re all gone, aren’t they?” All I could do was nod. So I asked her what she wanted to talk about. She gave me a confused look and replied, “Is there something to talk about?” Then she started to read the names aloud again.
These moments rocked me to my very core. They signaled the end of my intellectual and verbal relationship with my mom. No longer will we have cogent conversations. No longer will I be able to seek sound advice. No longer will anyone understand my unique flaws as she did.
I’ve been adrift for a few days. “There is no pain, you are receding/A distant ship, smoke on the horizon…”. The problem is I’m not comfortable nor am I numb. It’s heartbreaking to watch, the decline of a once substantive individual. I’m handling it rather selfishly at the moment. My diabetes has decided this is a good time to manifest itself through damage to my right eye. And the one who understood me best cannot comment.
I will sail through this emotional abyss. “oh but that’s the irony, broken people are not fragile.” This I know.
Stories Are For Eternity 