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Allen's World Narrative |
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October 13, 1999
Argyle Socks
Today I visited my grandfather in the nursing home.
I don't usually get the chance, or rather, I don't find myself
believing that I have the time.
But, a few days ago I dreamt of him.
My grandmother had passed down a pair of argyle socks to me
that he no longer needed, as he was now wearing special socks
to keep his ankles from bloating.
I love argyle socks.
I wore them to bed and dreamed of my grandfather...
I decided to pay him a visit, lest I put it off again until
the day when I could no longer visit him in waking life.
Drifting between those sepia days of freshly tilled earth and
green fields, and the days of now sterile, anesthetic-smelling
hallways and white walls, he asked me "HOW MY LIVESTOCK WAS".
I told him that although I didn't harbor any livestock in my
small 2 bedroom apartment, my cat was indeed eating more than
he should, and getting as big as a cow.
He looked at the floor, searching for the cat.
December 30, 2002
The Eighth of March, 2002
Four generations of our women huddled around the bed and counted
between his breaths; each one taking longer to be born.
My daughter, on the windowsill, my mother and grandmother in
murmurs and whispers with the pastor.
And I, as I heard the last, low rattling spiraling up through
the caverns of his chest, heaving with silent tears.
I looked up and saw the wall calendar.
I was vaguely aware of a familiar voice somewhere, in a swirling
pool of sound and cold morning light, trying to erase the moment,
arguing with me for status. Who had actually witnessed the last
breath, which sigh really had been final, what it should sound
like, and trying to pursuade me that I hadn't experienced what
I was still living through.
Me, the black sheep of the family with eyes that see everything.
How dare I be present in someone else's moment.
As his skin grew whiter, and the voice grew smaller, I knew
I would never forget the big, crisp eight in its utilitarian
font- my fellow witness, hanging on the wall. |
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