Mixing memory and desire.
It was this time last year that I knew something was amiss.
There was an inkling of trouble that barely registered in my busy life, but it was there.
Had I paused for longer to analyze it, would it have mattered?
It was this time last year I was late. You know, that kind of late.
I thought I was. I wasn’t. Or maybe I was and then wasn’t. Things go awry that way.
My body had already set upon a path. Maybe it had been all along and I misread the signals. No matter. In two months’ time I’d be near-blind in one eye. By the end of the summer I would have my answer, the words I both dreaded and needed to hear.
Cut to this April.
Not late. But strangely early. And this, after a year of set-your-watch-by-it regular cycles.
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
In my body, it seems, is doomed to repeat its own history.
AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience
Excerpts from The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot