Sunflower Skins

July 10, 2010

Experiment 9: Nostalgia

Filed under: experiments, prose — Tags: , — Sunflower Skins @ 2:38 am

I am no longer sure if I dream about you because you are a relic in my past, no longer tangible but a one-dimensional, static memory, or because I miss you and wish you were here sometimes. Sitting beside me on the sofa, the television casting a blue light on our cheekbones—standing beside me in the kitchen, chopping up a multicoloured stir-fry—walking with me, down our street, with our handsome watchdog and our bright, happy children.

They say that the death a child is the hardest loss to endure, even more so than a spouse. Whoever they are, they’re wrong.

I birthed another being—two, actually—and yet I feel that my bones extend into yours—that you finish where I end off.

That is not to say that I don’t love my children—how could I not? How could I possible overlook the tender life I have created, these two broken bodies producing whole, human babies without a scar or a lie. Children, perfect innocence? That I cannot believe—but they haven’t a responsibility to the pain or destruction of this world, not yet at least. That comes with the baptism—with the birthday—with the graduation from high school and the advance into adulthood—I mean:

You and I created, body to body, two beings. These we set upon the world our own created way—but our love was created first. The first two beings were us. And that is what I miss—through the flood of memories, the insomnia, the years since you have died.

Sometimes I sit up at my kitchen table, the bills piled on one counter behind me, the stove with the busted pilot light next to me—my company for the long night? Appliances. Two by two, each set divorced itself; parents separating, children coming of age. Sometimes I sit up at my kitchen table and envy my children, they who do not know the pain of sitting here alone, without you.


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