Lately, in the past year or so with the passing of my father-in-law Daniel, I've been struck with very still moments of clarity/confusion. I'll be reading something for a class under the stairs in the library or lying in bed with Pete's arm wrapped around my body or running on a long dirt trail somewhere, and I'll have an overwhelming sense that nothing around me feels real. The library is warm, Pete's arm is heavy, the dirt is soft, but I don't know what any of that means.
I think about my dad and what it would be like to never see him rolling his eyes at one of Sherrill's stories again.
I think about my mom and what it would be like to never watch her brush the cat again. She's very diligent, you know.
They're small things that almost feel realest, but intangible, unimaginable. I can see and hear my parents so clearly in my mind, and now I can't.
I think about Syd--and he's such a great little dude, really--and feel SO SAD that he's so old. I'm glad that Pete and I could make his life so much better with the short time that we've had with him. He yawns at me and squeaks and it 's nice. It feels real for right now.
I rub my thumb and my forefinger together in small, careful circles, and wonder about that.
I have tiny stops in time where I'm overcome with the idea that one day, I'll exist as much as I did before I was born, and what does that mean, and how should I feel, what should I think? I cry because I don't want to stop being me. And I cry because I don't want Pete to stop being Pete.
Check out Roger Ebert's blog, particularly his posts on evolution, his childhood dog (I know, I know), and God. That's some good shit there. He doesn't believe in God, and neither do I, but he has some incredibly insightful things to say, and it helps just a little bit, for a little while.
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