I will always be your girl

I haven't showered in two days.  I saw New Moon last night for the second time.  I am listening to Outkast while writing this post.  I haven't been thinking rationally.

Through an unhappy coincidence, Tim's surgery was scheduled for the same day as my psychiatrist appointment.  I missed Dr. Rahman.  I have been off my medication for a week.

My skin is pulled taut over my bones; it blisters to the touch.  I have been cooking and crying.  The cakes turned out too flat.  The egg whites won't peak.

Gran was read her last rites yesterday.  Hospice has applied morphine patches to quell the pain.  She slips in and out of consciousness.  I caught her yesterday afternoon and she whispered she would wait for me upstairs.

How did I become a middle aged bottle blonde crying to The Pixies in the kitchen?  When did I stop holding a hand to cross the street?  When did I start buying products called Regenerist?  How did December become just another month with 31 days instead of the crescendo of the year?

My eyes are swollen; I've taken to wearing sunglasses, all day, indoors.  I've bitten my nails to the quick.    Two days ago I ate 10 chocolate covered pretzels for lunch.

It's a miracle she lived for 2 years, my mother breathes over the receiver.  I hold the phone a good distance from my face so she cannot hear my sobs.  I cannot tell her, I cannot tell anyone my blackest secret.  If she dies, when she dies, who do I remain?  As long as she breathed, I was still young, her namesake.  I study the puffy face in the mirror; the creases, the newly emerged folds, the flat silver hair.  When did time cease to crawl?  I waited an eternity to turn sixteen.  My days now are wild horses, rushing the paddock, flattening the earth.