EVERYDAY HAS A NARRATIVE

The restroom in the airport was really cramped, with me having a backpack on. I was trying to get out while a soldier was trying to squeeze by me, with a friend. The first soldier gave it up while I asked the soldier if his friend had to pee or,,, wasn't sure of how to put it, , and he said no, but he does have to blow his nose.

Everyday seems to have a narrative, when it starts and where it takes me.

That's what's so difficult about losing the last few day's writings. I lost the narrative and the days that went with it.

An idea seems so ephemeral, a slight mist over a morning landscape, all too easily dissipated by the breezes of time passing.

To write,

and then to be from the i-earth untimely ripp'd. Arrgh.

My mom died yesterday at 3:30 pm, after Barbara moistened her lips with Pinot grigio instead of water. She said, in effect, "I'm done" ten minutes later.

On some level or other, she felt safe to let go.

She lived in a nervous skin with nerve endigs on the outside. No longer. She at rest now.
I hope she passed on her will to live to the family line.
It hardly is a coincidence that this trip of mine to such a religiously centered place as Jerusalem, where death and the past are the warp, and life and the present are the weft of the fabric of the city ended with the death of my mother. It didn't start out that way; in fact, when I left she wasn't even sick.
As I visited her on her death bed, I told her that I loved her and appreciated that she waited for me, so that I could say goodbye.
She opened and then closed her eyes. I like to think that she heard me.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone