One year ago I was in a much different place. I remember sitting at the edge of a chair in an intensive care unit staring at my unconscious great-grandmother, of whom I had barely known despite all the times I had visited her, as she obliviously breathed her last breaths in a musty hospital gown and ruffled bed encroached by cotton blankets and tubes. This morning would be the morning my father drove to pick me up from my dorm, to visit her in that hospital bed, laying in the exact same place, only no longer breathing.
Time does not fail to still me.
The deep yearnings of my being are a corrosive burning eliminating each and every obstacle of hesitation. I have decided that compromising what we deserve with the past is folly at its finest, and I am very happy with what I have found. I will not waste any more time in thought or settle for anything short from my devotion.
After all these years, I will find her.
The walk home from work this morning was a bittersweet one. Plagued by images of my unearthed novel I have not worked on in years, I am finding myself speaking with many people who serve, or have served in our nation’s military. I am finding myself perusing the streets of Frankfurt am Main, Muenchen, Koeln, Berlin.
I caught the sight of a silent home with its decorations still glinting, and there were three of David’s Stars hanging in their window. It made me feel glad inside despite the waning warmth of the oddly snug December morning.
I feel so fatigued, but was so intrigued to find when I came home my living room’s television on, my father sleeping on the couch, and the Brandenburg Gate featured on some glossed over travel channel.
This is enough for me to begin strongly considering: when? what? how? “How” is the greatest vacillation, but trial certainly does not quench desire.