Pacing, walking, I realize (somehow, train of thought long forgotten, twisted memory-reminder way of bringing me back to this) I've forgotten the voice of my Grandmother, dead 9 years. And of my Grandfather, dead 8 years. And of my Nanny, dead 16 years. Horror of horrors, utter sadness and grief. Remembering the last time I saw my Grandmother, twelve years old, frail barely conscious, skeleton draped with skin, hospital bed, tubes and tubes and tubes.
Realizing I don't recall my last encounter with my Grandfather.
Long knowing I don't remember the last time I saw my Nanny, my mother's adoptive mother, my beloved (and truly) one-eyed Nanny (eye lost at 8 years old, a misplaced step and a plank with a nail protruding; glass eye always looking off to the left); but at 5 years old, I'm just happy I remember her, remember my mother telling me of her death, even. Of hysterics. Just like with my father's mother, 7 years later.
No tears shed over my father's father, and that still bothers me.
Only left now is my father's mother, my Papa - he'll be 92 this October 18. I eat dinner with him last night, linguine with broccoli (sometimes, we're so Italian, I forget that I'm a no-good scoundrel mutt), and listen to him tell stories for an hour.
*
A week, and still no relief brought in a bloody tide by the woman's bane. Nearly buying a piece of complicated plastic-test-strip equipment to piss on. Instead, a twelve-pack of Pabst.
This potential thing inside me doesn't stand a fucking chance.
Even to myself, I sound disgusting, low, grimy. I don't want the thing to die,
Realizing I don't recall my last encounter with my Grandfather.
Long knowing I don't remember the last time I saw my Nanny, my mother's adoptive mother, my beloved (and truly) one-eyed Nanny (eye lost at 8 years old, a misplaced step and a plank with a nail protruding; glass eye always looking off to the left); but at 5 years old, I'm just happy I remember her, remember my mother telling me of her death, even. Of hysterics. Just like with my father's mother, 7 years later.
No tears shed over my father's father, and that still bothers me.
Only left now is my father's mother, my Papa - he'll be 92 this October 18. I eat dinner with him last night, linguine with broccoli (sometimes, we're so Italian, I forget that I'm a no-good scoundrel mutt), and listen to him tell stories for an hour.
*
A week, and still no relief brought in a bloody tide by the woman's bane. Nearly buying a piece of complicated plastic-test-strip equipment to piss on. Instead, a twelve-pack of Pabst.
This potential thing inside me doesn't stand a fucking chance.
Even to myself, I sound disgusting, low, grimy. I don't want the thing to die,
