Death and hope.

I know I'm losing her. That's why the stew bothers me when I see it left on the stove. It's evaporating, and it needs to be put away. That's my job, to put it away, because she is too weak to do it. She's gone upstairs; she's left the stew behind, for me to put away. She's left me behind to deal. I know it's coming. Whether now, in 8 years, or in 25, it's coming. People whose kidneys fail don't live as long as everyone else. She must know that. What agony to know the end is coming quicker, and inescapably. Her sickness happened in the past; that cannot be changed. And so, her death is inescapable. None of us can avoid death, but for us, death is over the horizon. We don't think about it, because there is so much sea between us and the far shore. Her sickness has placed a new horizon near her, and she can see the shore. She cannot turn back, this is not reversible. God could heal her, but this is irreversible.

And these thoughts haunt my 21st year. That I'll be left alone, and soon. And that I'll have not put the soup away. That she'll die, and the soup will simmer on the stove. I'll have been a bad son, and not put the soup away. I'll have been a bad son and only watched movies with her, too afraid to talk. Talk about what? About those things that scare me. She knows I'm terrified. I don't want to talk about it. Maybe she does. Maybe it will validate her illness. Maybe it will affirm that she's human and that it's ok to talk about her fears. Maybe it's ok and she doesn't know that. Maybe she was raised believing weakness and frailty and transparency to be signs of complaint, of ungratefulness towards God. Maybe she doesn't remember that Jesus asked to be excused from the crucifixion. Maybe she needs to know it's ok to be afraid, cause Jesus sweated blood, and I'm scared too.

***

I don't think too many happy thoughts. Not me, stuck in these two worlds. One is of reality -- and it is painful. The other is my fantasies -- and it too is painful. I look at the death, the Rwandas, the mothers, orphans, sick, diabolical, poor, rich, unhappy, experts, soothsayers, prophets who've got it all figured out. All figured out. Right. This chaos? No. Liars. And this world really hurts. I close my eyes. I dream of tropical islands, my island, with the wrinkled Japanese soldier, defending his nation from me, and American. "The war is over" I would tell him, and we'd be friends. I'd visit him, sailing up to the island and splashing through the blonde sand to his lair. He'd tell me he would die soon, and in peace, and that he had one more thing to show me. He'd lead me through the cave, holding an ancient lantern guilded with gold, azul and rubies. The false wall would swing open and he'd tell me, "All this is yours." I'd be amazed by the glistening treasure and by the stories all the pirates told on their voyages to this island, my island. The pain deafens me to all those who say, "Write first, then look for islands later." I know this is a fantasy, people. It hurts, because by it reality appears so much worse, as a bright light makes the shadows darker in my father's worried brow. I know it's a fantasy, that I'll never have my island, and this makes me want to write less. There's no way out of this reality, so why try? There's no better it could be, so why dream? Hope deferred makes the heart sick; hope will be deferred till death. Funny, the hope kills us, and the death presents us finally with that for which we hoped: a reality we can stand. The glass isn't half full damnit; I'm not a pessimist. There is no glass, no hope of a glass, and there's this pouring rain that I can't drink; the few drops on my tongue only ravage my thirst. I want to think happy thoughts, but hoping for happiness hurts more than just being honest about reality. Maybe this is why my mom is a realist. She knows she'll die someday; now that she's ready for it, it hurts less. She's got it beat. Beat death? We can only hope.