"We Are Water... in The eye of every storm

…lower than all things but stronger than rock” ~ Red Cloud

She’s nervous and perfect, her straight black native american hair pony tailed, as she’s surrounded on the couch buy our dog and cat. The amber glow of the lamp radiantly outlines her features, a halo effect for those yet to earn the status of sainthood. I watch her twirl the end of her pen in her mouth, her brow scrunch, lost in thought, a mysterious puzzle never to be pieced together by this intrepid observer. Like most night’s, a blanket sits across her lap. Her fibromyalgia keeps her constantly cold, her body in a silent protest of the fireplaces’ golden glow.

I can’t do without her. I mean anything.

In October, she flew to Omaha, her first trip without me. The house felt like a shell, its life-force already cast off into the endless empty ocean behind the front door. Her Great Uncle turned 90, and there was a party, and all of his families were there, in a small town in Iowa. We went there once, after a vacation to South Dakota. We drove from Rapid City down to Iowa. After resting in Council Bluffs, we drove into the town where he lived, which is a state road that forms an “L” they call Main St. There’s a post office, a church, and a bar. We arrived early and walked into the bar, the matron looking up saying, “You must be Dick’s niece from Texas.”

This time, up there, by herself, her Uncle, the Great Uncle’s son, falls into a diabetic Coma. The trips all celebration and it’s all damnation. Hospital visits in Omaha and celebrations across the river, everyone joyously mournful, because no Father should outlive His son. We don’t talk much while she’s gone. She’s busy and I understand.

Back home I’m all whiskey, guitar, and pills. I’m going to bed at 7:30am and getting up at 5:30pm. Eventually, I get sick, because too much of a good thing is just that, and I have to call out of work. Fever overtakes me, and the cough comes, and then I’m on the couch, sad, lonely, and sober.

I guess its around this time I became fascinated by ghosts. I couldn’t get enough of the ghost investigation shows, even the “bro! bro! look at the hair on my arms, bro!” one. I watched that other one where they debunk everything, and don’t believe in anything. I ordered Zak Bagans book on Amazon Prime and it’s there that afternoon. Seven hours later I’ve finished it, awake from cold medicine. It starts getting to me, ya know? I start hearing things. The cat sharpening his claws on the scratch-pad becomes a dragging corpse, reanimated and suddenly in the dining room. The Ice Maker becomes a wall, collapsing upon me, broken by some malevolent force.

It’s all too much really. I have a prescription for klonopin, but I never took it until then. I’m not sure if it made it worse or better, but it made me forget. I slept, and I slept, and had dreams, and got better, and then the sun shined, and her flight landed here in The City and my life became normal once again. I never told her about my secret love affair with the darkness, the sickness, the sadness, and despair.

I can’t do without her. I mean anything.

December finds us on the couch, and she’s radiantly beautiful, existing in defiance of the darkness which back-filled her absence. The pets are always strangely relaxed around her. Maybe it’s cliche, or maybe because she’s Lakota-Souix, part of the Oglala tribe. They have ways about them, and I don’t understand them, but I believe them. Now.

Her pen. It’s twisting in her mouth and the blanket is over her lap. The cat is asleep against her right leg, head strangely turned upside down, the way cat’s can sleep in the oddest positions. Her brow is furrowing, and in that moment, her curiosity about whatever is quite lovely in this stolen moment.

She’s filling out a job application, for Major Airline. This time I think she’s got it. I want it for her; not that we’re poor, but I suspect she feels a little lost and directionless at times. She’s been unemployed for a year, and the weight of not contributing burdens her more than the actual need of contribution being non-existent.

All of this was several weeks ago. Her interview is in twelve hours. I hope she gets this job. I don’t want to pick up her pieces and put her back together again. She’s beautiful, right now, right here, and forever.

The Family

her

Tater Tot

Doctor John Watson

Paper Cut Scenario

Last updated December 15, 2015