Repeat. Of how I felt years ago. Oh I worry. Of you. More of me. The thought of not having you here…to call every morning. To seek advice. I tremble at the thought. You call so often now, as if you know how hard it is for me to talk to you. At least, when you’re frozen in time like..this. This man. This man I talk to way too loud. This man I explain myself to more times than necessary. I think I won’t be okay this time. I need you here. Not the flesh. Not the meat suit that wears your clothes. No, for he is not you. My, ..my. I can not find the words I need. I need you. Where do I go without the yang to my ying? Without my guardian? Without,. my Father? I try my best to ignore your calls. To ignore this situation as it sits. I do not seek attention, but rather a distraction. From where I sit now. In life that is. For a life without you is not one I want to imagine. And you thought I didn’t need the anxiety medicine. Pshh, I need it more now than ever. I need you to know how much you have made me the person I am today. I would not be here without you. I am lost, still, now. Waiting for you to come back to me. I know you’re in there somewhere. You have to be. Because if you are not, I am already gone.
I remember him like it was yesterday. Standing there in that tell nothing secretive way. His silhouette drenched in lustful wonder. I remember those eyes basking down at me. He always did have such peculiar expressions. I miss those days, so simple. I recall one in particular when he spent what seemed like a lifetime studying my face. As though he was taking notes and studying hard for some test. Oh and the tests. Relentless. I can barely keep my breakfast down. The nausea radiates through me mocking the radiation therapy. Funny how before you can begin to get any better, you must at first feel much worse. Although some days I don’t mind all the prodding and probing. The needles and the repetitive questions. “Ma’am, can you tell me your full name?” The nurse asks in a monotone voice. “My name is Jordan Allie Sumner and my birthday is three twenty-one ninety-five”, I reply without missing a beat. The nurse almost looks irritated I already knew the next question. I do wish I had a better memory so I wouldn’t have to refer to each of them simply as “the nurse”. However, I feel like they must have an assembly line of nurses; sure to send in a different one for each task in an effort to keep me constantly dazed and confused. I often dose off between treatments. And for whatever reason, I’m assuming my dire need to escape from my own reality, I always fall back into the same dream. I dream often of this man. I see myself lying in this very hospital bed, I see a profile of an older more classic looking gentleman by my bedside. I can never bring up the nerve to speak to him for he’s far too stunning for me to comprehend. I merely lay there, gazing upon his beauty. Yearning to kiss him, to run away with him far from here. Anywhere really. Suddenly he leans down and I can feel my heart leap in hopes he’ll kiss me. He never does. He always says the same nine words. “Would you like me to eat your cancer Miss.Sumner?” And I always reply, “By all means Sir, please do.”
Heavy is the head. Heavy is the stress that ways on the body and mind. Heavy is the mallet that ends the stress that weighs on the head. Heavy is that hand that guides me through life. Heavy is my heart as I battle with uncertainty. Heavy is the darkness that creeps through my window keeping me up at night. Heavy are my worries that unsettle the dead. Heavy is my hand pecking on this keyboard. And heavy is this headache from contemplating all that is heavy.
And here she walks again. All over me. Her trophies stacked so high I can merely dream of ever touching one. I have no trophies to show. No home to go home to. No secret escape. No Plan B. Ha, what about a Plan A for starters? No plans at all. Great plan. I remember that street. Where we once stopped to smell the roses. Where I sat astonished at you and all your glory. All your secrets. Such a lone creature you must be. Locked away for all those years pretending to be someone you’re not. I miss the fake you. The one that had no genuine side. No intellect. Just good bone structure. Good posture. Good lies to tell. Because if you are as shallow as you seem, (which you’re not) then you are much easier for me to grasp. For me to contemplate. All these complications though, all these emotions. It’s not good for my health. But where does good health get us anyway? We all end up in the same place. Six feet under.