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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Perfect Circle
So it's all settled then. I had a near perfect day: Max, Eric S's father's dentist (even the news that my tooth is probably not going to make it, necessitating my seeing a dentist in Japan wasn't enough to kill my day), the pharmacy for various narcotic and non-narcotic prescriptions from said dentist, lunch with my Aunt, CostCo, the Co-Op, Kel and Kev and Lewie, packing, cleaning, crying, and finally, a visit to my Grandmother in the nursing home. While she slept, I wished her a silent goodbye. "Japon, mama," Bois explained to her mother at my going-away party. A half-week later, I found myself writing "JAPON" on my suitcase tags. Japon. My grandmother breathed in her sleep the way she's always breathed in her sleep. I know this because I used to sleep with her when I was little and spent the night at her house, in bed, curled up next to her. She would say, every night as she lay down, "Dear Lord, thank you for letting me see another day," and I was never sure if she meant the day that had just passed or the one coming up. Was it a glass half-emptied, or about to be half-filled? I missed her prayer tonight, arriving at the nursing home after she was asleep. As I sat quietly by her bed in her darkened room, my glasses off, my eyes closed, listening to her breathe, she said to herself, in a voice that has grown tinier with age, "Abre esta luz." Turn on this light. "Japon, gramma, I thought. I may never see you again. I am grateful to her. I am grateful to you, Grandma.
More lies:
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