Once a week, or at least once every two weeks, I dream of my dad dying.
My mom’s always there. And my dad is sick. And we wait for him to die.
And then he dies. We watch him die. And we’re sad, but we shuffle on.
I hate these dreams. I know it stems from the fears I have, but I just cannot handle them. I’ve had them for the past few years.
Are they trying to tell me I’ll be okay when he’s gone?
That I worry too much?
That he’s going to die in the next few years because of his age?
Or just my brain relaying what I fear the most?
Whatever it is, I don’t want to dream of him dying anymore.
because I’ve forgotten the geography of a woman’s shoulder, how hard
and brittle in places, how supple and stemlike in others.
because my desire alone isn’t enough for both of us.
because if I showed her the stars at night, she might see them as
nothing but light cracking through a frail wall, and I’d have no words to
comfort her.” —Andy Weaver, from “The Constant of the Universe” (via yesyes)