THE FORMS OF THINGS UNKNOWN

The afternoon my father died, I was planting dahlia bulbs with a three-year-old.  

One blessed Saturday in March tempted the sun’s lips to graze Spring’s cheek, 

Emergent signs of life emboldened to claw out from every hairline crack in the concrete. 

We bought six bags of black mulch only to get home and need four more.  

We’ll go tomorrow.  

As soon as it visited, the warmth began to fade, afternoon nearly diminished, the boys stotting  

Through a gale of bubbles spewing from a $16 bubble blower impulse-buy. 

I’ll bring the boys to see you when I get back,  

A promise from two weeks prior, on my way to my grandmother’s funeral. 

The tallest swells doubling over at once. 

Something about this place always feels like loss 

An admission to my sister before we came home,  

Unaware of the full body rotation coming behind a nasty left hook.  

And  then the  Knockout— Unresponsive. I’m so sorry.  

No preamble, scripted talking points or artificially constructed explanation to the shock ringing, panic rising, the knowing that it can't be undone.

No invitation to bear witness. 

Hanging back, wringing my hands, transformed into a child once more afraid of what it doesn’t yet understand, a still visage, probably cold, only scared me more. 

The TV was on, always on, constant companion. 

And what was seen wasn’t to be feared, 

Only whispered to tearfully a certainty of love 

And a proclamation of freedom

To escape, to soar, to return again through the rocky soil and chipped glass,

To bloom again.

Slowly, forcing lungfuls of breath, I shuffle across stained carpet, past dirty dishware, past Dad’s vacuum that sits, cord coiling across the floor waiting to trip me up, to the mirror where I briefly consider the raccoon smeared face that’s all mine, I hear the Chinese minister telling me I’ve got Dad’s eyes, I feel Dad’s one good arm grab me and pull me in for a crude hug, the only one we can manage, then I shuffle into the bedroom and instinctively pick out one black mass of fabric out of the ever-burgeoning pile of laundry. “I want to be buried in this extra large AC/DC tee” because I can still hear myself making fun of him wearing it, and I know now what I’m feeling is loss, and that sometimes it is inconsolable, and that this too is a part of everything, demanding to be felt, and that I must learn to keep on going 

In the past 10 days, the days following my father’s life threatening series of strokes, I’ve been digging through my personal tumblr and all of the photos and files I have on my computer; slowly, because I’m looking for any and everything that might contain a link to him. 

It’s amazing how little you appreciate a person’s life until they’re about to lose it. 

I wrote this about a year ago, and found it just now while I’m at work and it was enough to make me cry.

It’s about my family, childhood, my parents and their divorce and of course, “The Sound of Music.” But mostly, it’s about us.

of either     of any          of no gender. It’s more about the war wounds anyway and then

that night,

                  he on one side                                         I on the other,

                                   How many tattoos do you have?

like I’ve never been asked, though just then I began to feel it, the way I start to feel when I’m near big bodies of water, a fluidity, as if my mother made late 80s love on-board a sea god and my birth was a Katrina, a Camille, a Sandy, and when I look across at him, he unflinching in the center of my tumultuous helix, I allow it:

                                             "I’ve lost count.“

Later, with this specimen of leather and argyle, Stranger, on the platform just waiting but waiting less alone than before, I think of the temple veil, wouldn’t it have been so dark?, and isn’t this just another attempt at connection? Streets swimming with lights green, yellow, red, but please don’t stop, I didn’t want to stop. They say at the hour of Christ’s death, that fabric split,

as the man in South Station began playing Pachelbel’s Canon, jazz riffing to a tambourine half-time tick. I didn’t look directly, I didn’t kneel and drop coin. Meanwhile that sweet jive tore me a little bit more from the top down, incapable of mend or stitch or river or thread, two halves, two sides but of what, if not the same coin?

and at that hour, they say their god would never again return to a temple made by man’s calloused, wicked hands, and we lost those hours but maybe they play on, looping continuously, because there in waiting, smelling piss and liquor, listening to the man with his open guitar case of silver and singles,

there, split-heeled, raw soled and molting, six pack lips on citrus skin, a couple of live wires snapping in the darkness

My best friend stands with her arms outstretched,

Gazing at my then-ever-present lens pointed, ready.

Little airplane child, drowning in her clothes, later we snort at how innocent she looks. As if. 

Months later we feel years have passed: "I really was naive at that point."

Beginnings. Starting fresh. A mere day could be an entire new beginning. 

"Where do beginnings go? When do they die?"

She claims hers is still happening. She gloats about it. "I have a thing for falling," she claims. 

It is 2008 and we are writing poetry back and forth in our everyday speech. 

Everything we touch is unfurling, pastel petals in constant bloom.

Now I try to write about the past as if manna from heaven will begin raining on the page,

A spout tipping over from the-way-back-when to sprinkle the leathered ground. 

Now when I sit across from her, I feel us both cautiously sensing it in each other, feelers out:

The absence of our childhood wonder, 

Dad, 

In response to your voicemail, the 10 second one you left just now, the one where you simply said, “Fuck you,... fuck you...”

I would say (but won’t because what would the point really be):

Suck my bag of dicks. Listen to how profane I can get, as the daughter of someone who is so ill that he can live with telling his offspring to go fuck themselves. Suck it. 

I got up far earlier than I wanted to on my one morning to sleep in and why? For you. To take you to the DMV. To help you do something you’ve needed to do for months. I got up because I’m the one who must hold the money allotted to you. I have to hold this money, I have to be the wallet, bifold, trifold, that remains responsible enough to 

get things done. 

For you, I rushed through my morning routine. Quick shower. Pulled on some work clothes. Took the dog out only to realize: you’re not here. You’re not home. You’re god fucking knows where in the boonies. You’re being the chauffeur to a bunch of your fellow bums. You’re neglecting your responsibilities for what? For people that wouldn’t return the favor. You’ve banded together in a troop of misfits, of dirty unemployed chainsmoking on-their-way-out bums. 

Oh and meanwhile: your sister is the headwaters of the wallet that I must now be. She’s poured thousands and thousands into you, to keep you alive, to keep a roof over your head, to keep you mobile. She’s given you so much and how do you repay her? Oh that’s right. You don’t. You take take take. You take and don’t feel remorse or regret. You feel entitled, perhaps. Or maybe you’re so ill that you just don’t feel much at all, besides the repetition of taking. A comfortable habit. 

Well guess what: fuck you too. I’m not going to call you back or text it to you, like I have in the past, because I don’t want to say such garbage to you. You’re my family, the only one I’ve got in this miserable world, so nah, I suppose I’ll keep my responsible pants pulled up and not take a shit on your head for the way you treat me. I’ll just put your survival money in a tin can and wait til you want to come around. Maybe you’ll apologize, maybe you won’t. 

I hope, if you ever allow yourself a moment or two of silence to reflect, that you remember your sister, that you remember your daughter, who worked together for your greater good. I hope you remember the time you had to call me. You, broken down, out of gas, in an Oklahoman convenience store parking lot. “I think this adventure is done.” You needed money to make it home. I helped because your admission of defeat made my stomach turn.

Unfortunately you always bounce back. 

Old habits are hard for old dogs to break. 

Well peace out, Pops. See ya around. Catch ya later. I hope that “fuck you” and all the other “fuck yous” whisper to you occasionally, and that you somehow get a divinely inspired vision of the tears tracking down as I lay on my back, little paths driven by gravity. Yep, you’d think I’d be immune to the sting by now, but I suppose my skin has never been very thick. 

Sincerely,

It was a work night in the middle of December ‘11. Four months after the hook-in-knee incident. Both A. and I were managers at two different Arby’s. Our shifts started in thirty-five and it took nearly that to drive to the north side from our central apartment. There’s not enough time I laughed as we fucked around, engaging in a quickie before we both headed out the door. I’d been juggling five classes at on top of the 45 hours of roast beef madness that was required input for my salary. Suddenly a sharp pain in my lower abdomen made me wince, but I rolled over and thought nothing much of it. As I frantically slipped on my grease shimmering Treadsafes, I realized I was still feeling odd. I reclined on my side. What’s wrong? A. inquired. I have no idea. A mix of what felt like cramps or gas, but was neither. I rolled into different positions. I curled into a fetal ball. Maybe it’ll go away soon, I assured him. I phoned the manager on duty and explained I’d be a bit late.

Thirty minutes passed. Nothing different. I headed to work, calling each of my parents (just divorced) on the way for advice. Maybe gallstones, my dad speculated. My mom shot even more obscure worries into the void. I’ll be fine I guess, thanks anyway, I gritted.

That night at the Arby’s is foggy because the majority of my time was spent at the desk in the back room. I deteriorated over the course of the evening. A blessed force of the fates allowed my favorite right-hand shift manager to be one of my closers that night. She worked miracles through the dinner rush as I went in and out. I tried eating. I tried throwing up. I tried shitting. I googled my symptoms. Nothing was working, I was probably dying.

Around 11 p.m., closing time, I phone my father to call an ambulance. I’d never been in an ambulance before. I couldn’t afford an ambulance. But I’d be dead soon so the bill wouldn’t be my burden. The time spent between that call and me being carted into the Deathmobile included passing out (first timer), a very inconvenient power outage, barfing in front of all of my employees into a trashcan (still in the dark), and being strapped to a rolling gurney in front of my audience. My little sister, who accompanied my father up to the store, asked to ride with me but I tell her no. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t let her ride along. 

I spent the rest of the night at the hospital. After rounds and rounds of tests, they simply told me a cyst--most likely brought on from the stress of 45 hrs/week and five college classes--ruptured and bled out. The body’s way of telling me to slow the fuck down. It’s not a race.

I missed my final exams. I missed a week of work. I recouped and carried on but I began to respect the body’s relation to stress and time. When I reflect on this night, one small moment always ripples to my memory’s still surface. 

“Damn, nice time stamp on this one,” I say as she shows me the messages. 

“Yeah... those hours are the only times I can really say anything at all.”

“You are not broken.”

and one year ago he entered the library where I work.

His name was Justin and he began to display erratic behavior, Wandering, pacing, perhaps unsure of where he was.

His name was Justin and he was found, minutes later, by a janitor, who informed those in charge that Justin, shirt now off, was rolling on the floor as silent volumes of literature formed a hedge around him.

Officers were called. This behavior was not appropriate for public spaces. He could be dangerous to us, to himself, to women and children.

His name was Justin and, you see, Justin had served two tours in Iraq. Operation U.S.A. Operation Freedom. After 9/11, Justin had been so moved that he decided to join Uncle Sam. The Army welcomed him with open arms. "Give us your boys." Boys, or lambs, to a slaughterhouse shaded in ever shifting light. Try to look closely and the images blur. You become convinced that sending the young in the name of your own liberty makes them brave, makes them heroes, instead of an order of the most sinful manipulation. You cross your heart and sing "God Bless Us" yet ignore that these boys---these bleating boys of each backwoods hollow, who used to bolt barefooted through creeks and chigger filled pastures, who would cup fallen baby birds in shaking palms, who would banter with their mothers, who would get playful swats on their behinds, who would chug clinking glasses of lemonade through dusty cracked summertime lips

---are dying.

Dying, if not in the East, in your own god damned alleyways, in empty apartments, in the time between the coming of 2:00 a.m. and when they are found the following day, the following week.

Justin, Justin Wayne, was of course banned from the library. Chances can't be taken. There is the greater good to consider.

The same way we send the boys to Iraq--for the greater god damned good.

"We feel bad, but we can't save them all."

My coworkers swarm around the obit in today’s paper, clucking about how sad it is. 

I go to the bathroom and scrub my hands under boiling water; they feel dirty. Stained. Bloody.

A quick search shows Justin's Facebook page on August 14th, one day before he was found dead in St. Louis. He had posted a Marilyn Monroe quote: "If you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."

Tonight I will return to my shoddy apartment and tip one up toward the wrinkled United States flag on my wall. A memento and acknowledgement of all of the ironic, backwards, murderous actions it has defended.