July 10, 2003
Soft Hand
"Mike, why can't you be a pirate?"
Ever the straight man with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Mike dead pans.
"Because I brush my teeth."
He, Fred, Kels, and I went to see Pirates of the Caribbean last night. A lovely two hours of slightly gay, extremely drunken Johnny Depp swashbuckling. I loved it.
He stole the show, Orli, but you are still the elf after my own heart.
It is amazing how a simple evening can hold so much for me. The darkness of the movie theatre and his hand upon my knee, the gentle tugging at my sleeve when he wants me to lean down and listen to one of his wisecracks about the movie. I'll kiss his cheek and some of the Hollywood stardust will come flickering down from the screen and catch itself between my lips and his skin. Later, I'll wonder why his smile is so bright.
Is it just me? Am I just foolish and sensitive and possessed of an overactive imagination, an overactive heart? I love him more for each moment that passes, each psuedo-adventure that unfolds itself before us.
This morning it was tossing and turning before the alarm, clutching at the blankets, intermittently staring at the ceiling and squeezing our eyes shut tight at the inevitable day.
We went to University Hospital this morning for his inner ear infection, a nasty ailment despite what the ignorant may think. Sitting in the cracked plastic cushioned waiting room chairs, both of us, book in hand (The Blessing Stone, Barbara Wood: me; 1984, George Orwell: Mike), we listened to the wet coughs of those ailing around us, the shuffling of the lame, the calling of all names other than his over the crackly emergency room intercom.
I was surprised that there were no children. I've always associated The Doctor with The Wailing, Unconsolable Child.
It seems, however, that these mothers have decided to bring their children to the library instead. Excuse me while I cover my ears and cringe.
All my vows of going home this evening fell from me with our delicate parting in the Eden Parking Garage, his soft kiss, my hands forgetfull and reaching for his tender ear.
He laughed it off, and I pulled away, headed for work.
And really, why should I go home? Why should I want to? Do I even retain rights to relay my troubles? Do I even want to?
It's on again, off again, ridiculous. I shouldn't have to say that my mother left again. She shouldn't have come home in the first place.
I feel silly, like an episode of Jerry Springer. Only I'm the unlucky normal person, who still has a heart and not one made of stone, who sits, dumbfounded, subject to the jeers and the pain of ignorance that cannot understand, thinks only of itself.
That ignorance is my mother, who is sick. I mean Sick, as in medication sick. This is my consolation to myself, because I cannot believe her to be the cold woman she has become. I'll will it a mask, and one I can remove.
But could I even bring myself to talk to her?
I could bring myself to dragging her to the hospital. I'm just waiting for my opportunity.
I have Mike, and we are cozy, and even if I didn't have him, I have me, who is capable, and willing, and strong.
astera at 4:24 p.m.