The Definition of Time

Chapter 15

I don't trust
people that say
they care about me.
I don't trust people that say they love me.

I don't trust myself
when my emotions awaken
and try to crawl out of me
everything dark inside of me
drowns them under waves
waves of death
and there is just despair.

I try to let them free
but the fear, the despair,
they wash through my organs
and everything tastes of bitterness
the emotions are saturated
in fear
why should everything not fall apart?
nothing has ever stayed together before.
the bones, they break.
the organs, they wither.
the skin, it chars.
why should anything change?

how is anything supposed to be real
if everything is already filled with death
I'm not sure what of me is left
or if I've just become char
burned into dust
that can't be set on fire again.

I've come to love the darkness
and though I long to burn again,
I'm too scared.

Charred.

June 1, 2014

When I see him for the first time since Christmas, I don't know what to say. His frame is emaciated, and he walks with his eyes on the ground--he looks old for the first time that I can remember. He's walking with a cane, and Mom is fretting over him, trying to help him but being swatted away at every attempt.

"Gramps!" I holler, and I take off running towards him.

What if this illness, this debilitating evil that is eating him from the inside out, what if it has taken his spirit? His eyes are cast down, and he looks dejected. What if he's already gone? 

"Rachy!"

When I hear him say my name with that scratchy hick accent, my face lights up. I wrap my arms around his flannel-shrouded shoulders, trying not to knock his cane from his hands. He stretches wraith-like hands around me, and I squeeze him tighter, trying to give him some of my life. I can feel the vertebrae in his spine, and his body tremors as if a strong breeze could knock him over.

Don't cry.

I let go of him and look into his eyes. They are a soft, misty blue, just as they always have been. There are a few more layers of wrinkles than there were when I was a child, but his heart still thrives in his eyes. 

"You look good, Gramps," I say with a smile.

He laughs at me, "now don't you go lying to me, Pipsqueak. I know I look like week-old roadkill. I feel like week-old roadkill too. Every time I start to feel better, your momma reminds me I'm dying."

Grandpa laughs, and Mom turns a shade of red that can only mean she's infuriated, mortified, or both. 

"Dad, don't say that," she reprimands.

"I'm not dead yet, Amy," he cackles in response and elbows her in the ribs. 

"You seem like you're staying in good spirits," I comment, taking in the merriment in his eyes.

"I can't let cancer ruin me," he says with a smile.

"C'mon, Gramps," I say, putting my arm around him conspiratorially. I whisper in his ear, "let's get you some bacon and eggs."

June 3, 2014

"Rachel, welcome back!" An overly zealous grin greets me as I walk into the YMCA where I'll spent 40 hours a week this summer.

Sam, the camp director, gives me a quick squeeze and then gestures to the tent where the counselors are gathered. She brushes a strand of bleach blonde hair behind her ears and marches in another direction at breakneck speed. She's like a cup of heavily caffeinated coffee--overpowering and hyperactive.

I join the other counselors and sit on a picnic bench a little removed from the crowd. I recognize a few people from last year and wave hello; I never got too close with the other counselors, mostly because I didn't want to date/sleep with any of them and I was too preoccupied with my troop of five year olds to pay them much attention.