MEMO 03: She Never Ends
On moving homes, and packing up, and mothers. Always, mothers.
Dearest Stranger,
I have a good feeling about this rhythm. Do you?
Let’s continue.
I'm breathless. There's much to do. Day breaks, and I find myself telling you about Her. Fury burns your cheeks. You crack open her eye. She wails with a giant creak. I whisper to her when you're out of reach. I murmur, I love you. She asks if she means 'me'.
6 days before we're supposed to move. My body feels heavy. I stare at her standing still. Will her to move. She doesn't. I ask her about what she saw. She doesn't say a thing.
Wake up, I beg her, Wake up you're gone. She breathes. Everything inflates, the wood starts to bloat, and the windows brace themselves. Summer, I feel him. Summer is here.
I empty her out like a surgeon. I gut the organs into tiny pieces. The lungs and heart work their time. I punch the liver into a garbage bag. You watch idly, you tell me you love her. I tell you I don't. At night, when you leave, I wear my shirt 30 minutes after stillness. I think you're asleep. Sweat makes the shirt cling to my back. I ask her if she believes me. She folds back. The walls shrivel.
I rise as dawn breaks. The curtains colour dully. I watch her change in the light. You stay cross and grieving. I'm looking for joy in her. The little bit of it that tells me I survived. You touch the door frames, and tell her that I'll miss you. I tell you I won't.
I snap pictures of her. I ask her to let me stay. You slip into my worship. It's time to let go or it's time to dig a grave. I crush her teeth into white powder. I melt the skin and render the fat. I eat her pancreas and leave the guts for cats. I wait to consume all of her. But she never ends. She never ends.
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