I wonder if Sisyphus ever got tired of rolling the same boulder up the same hill, only to begin again when he nears the summit. The futility of it all. I wonder if the boulder ever felt any heavier over time, as he got weary of performing the same task. I wonder if it got lighter, as he got stronger. I wonder what Iām being punished for, what Zeus-like being has condemned me to drag this grief tirelessly around for eternity. Maybe itās the price I paid for more time with you, or maybe the deal is remembrance, so long as Iām still conscious the other, blacker, side of the coin. Perhaps your life is the fire I stole from the gods, and I am destined to be ripped to eternal shreds. It feels like I wear that cursed albatross around my neck, I never should have shot it down, never should have prayed to have you for as long as I did. It probably would have been easier when I was younger ā if the last loss is any demonstration, probably not. My albatross is in the shape of a crab, gold, sparkling, walking sideways over me in my sleep, snipping its claws menacingly to make sure I donāt forget you. As if I ever could. My dreams are ridden with you, always you, alive, awake, warm. I bask in these dreams, theyāre never long enough, and no matter how hard I try to make them real, there is a sadistic part of me that always knows they arenāt. That youāre gone, really, and I canāt tell you because then youāll leave me again. The saddest part is the feelings are shadowy, the voice all wrong, the words fall flat. Though in reality I canāt even remember what you sound like, not anymore ā thatās been gone for a few years now ā so whatās the difference? I reach out to tell you what Iāve done with my life, but you are already gone.
But I remember some things. āTwo rings when you get homeā youād say, the old adage, though I was cursed to forget every time you asked. Then youād stand in the doorframe and wave as I rounded the corner, every single time, as if I were leaving on a long journey (though Iād see you the next day anyway). It was nice having the comfort of being cared for, my safety in your hands. It was knowing that if our house phone ever rang, it would inevitably be you on the other end, two rings meant you were safe, more meant you needed something. It was your version of caller ID, the quirks of a bygone era, saying āits just me, helloā. For a while, Iād find myself staring at my phone when I crossed the threshold of the front door, wondering at what Iād forgotten. Searching in my phone for your number, though I knew it off by heart anyway, repeating it in my head like some TV jingle or weird prayer, 84615986, again and again. Maybe I thought I could summon you that way (and God wouldnāt that go against everything you believed in?). Iād wait for that phone to ring, wanting with every bone in my body, every bit of blood in my veins that made me your (grand)daughter to hear that āhello darlingā whenever youād hear me call you. I wish I could etch that sound onto my skin, throw it into the darkness for it to throw back in your voice. I walk past your road, sometimes, wanting to pop in for tea and a chat, hoping youād let me in ā only to remember that your number has been deleted, the phone thrown in the bin, the keys disposed of the flat given to another like you. All these small things gone, removed, condensed down into the familiar shape of a crab that hangs around my neck.ā
