We rode into the city ahead of my surgery, and though we weren't together again per se, he put his arm around me for comfort, stroked my cheek, let me kiss his palm and tell him I love him one last time. I was so very terrified, wanted nothing more than to cancel cancel cancel, but canceling was not an option, too much damage there was to be undone. First a hole in my diaphragm and then my heart, they have to scrape the cancer out, I said, and oh how I wish that were true. How I wish a chisel could right my wrongs, a little spackle could stop up the bleeding.
He was rightthere stroking my cheek, and I was kissing the warm callouses of his palms, and I swear to God it was the perfect moment no matter what it was we were driving to. And the memory of it was so perfect that I panicked under the anesthesia, that I panicked upon waking and realizing that I'll never again feel the heat emanating from his perfect hands, that I'll never again be able to tell him that I love him, because he just won't let it be true.
gosh, this is positively ancient.
ReplyDeleteand positively sad. Hi kat.
ReplyDeleteit's what it's.
ReplyDeleteand also what it isn't.
Whatever it is, it's perfect.
ReplyDeletedidja buy your plane ticket yet? didja? didja?
ReplyDeleteHee, I'm doing it today, I swear.
ReplyDeleteOh, Kat.
ReplyDelete"...because he just won't let it be true."
For someone who hates writing, you do it remarkably well. 'Damn my flawless use of punctuation and grammatical know-how!', you scream into the night, shaking your fists at the heavens.
ReplyDeletewhy thank you, sir. i never know if what i've written is worth the time it takes to either read or write, so i have to admit i appreciate the compliment more than i'd like to admit.
ReplyDelete(and for the record, i've been writing a new post for a full week now and i think it sucks real hard.)