Smallnesses. Still no job and nothing on the horizon. Bryan ran out of his long-acting insulin this weekend and woke up in the middle of the night with his blood sugar at 500. I think of the time we will lose on the back end because of this 500. Does this mean he will die a week earlier than he would have? A day? When we are 80? 77? 68? (I cannot go any lower.) Will I know? Does it matter? Today is made up of me being macabre. I think of that one time years ago when he woke up with his blood sugar at 20, how I stuffed his mouth with bread while ransacking the fridge for a quicker form of sugar. When I turned around he was looking at me through a hole he had poked through the slice of bread like a boy with a piece of bologna. Hellooooooo! he giggled, a grown man giggling in the unnatural overhead kitchen light of 3 in the morning, his blood sugar at 20 and plummeting, how I pushed that piece of bread into his mouth and hated him for losing control. For letting it drop. For laughing when I was so afraid my hands shook while cramming bread into his clammy face, the dough dry and brown and dead. There are things I am afraid to write but they are there and me not writing about them does not make them go away. If only I had that power. Any power. Like I said, teenage poetry, my thoughts too big for me to understand, dramatic and dark, my i's dotted with just dots because I have never been the girl who goes for hearts or happy faces. Okay, there is this: blogs with children who have died. I let the cursor blink there for two full minutes while I tried to think of another way to say it. Something softer, maybe, something that makes sense. But of course nothing is soft there, nothing makes sense, nothing gives respect really but the truth and so there is just this and this and this. I ask my friends if they have read that blog. The one? With the little girl? Who? And my friends, their eyes grow wide as they shake their heads and tell me another story. Of another little girl. Who. And then there's that boy. The two year old? Who. The stories are swapped and we cannot imagine. We need to keep them stories, of a blog of a mother I have never met, of a friend of a friend of a boy of a girl of a child, once upon a time in a faraway land there once was a child who-- I hold on, knowing that things drop. Blood sugar and the stock market, things that make sense and can be enumerated and then things that can't, that won't, things without numbers that I will not say because maybe just maybe words have power and I can keep those things at bay. No, not mine. I hold on tight. Years ago I read an article about poetry, how to tell the good from the bad, or maybe the point of the piece was how subjective it all is. I actually don't remember the point. What I do remember is that included in the article were several famous poems and some not-so famous, supposedly terrible poems. I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, and I could not tell the good from the bad so I stopped reading poetry. How stupid is that? What is the fucking point? There is none, that's the joke. There is just this: beauty and loaves of bread made of yeast which turns to sugar which converts into energy and we all know that energy can neither be created nor destroyed and so I close my eyes and feel both fragile and invincible all at the same time. The world is too much. Thankyouthankyouthankyou, even though today is a sad day full of incomplete sentences. I hold on because if I let go I will be flung apart, scattered and lost like dandelion seeds and dander. I have no faith but I have my hands.
*Image of Shark Girl--I have been coveting this image for months now, I love it so. Sadly I have no idea where I got it or whose it is. Please let me know if it rings a bell and I will gladly credit the artist. It is so good. UPDATE: Thank you, Sparkie, for pointing me in the right direction! The artist is Casey Riordan Millard, and I am her new #1 fan. And how perfect is her artist bio for this post? Awesome.