I’m not a girl who misses much
Do do do do do do do do, oh yeah.
Why do I sometimes still look at you with the gaze of a stranger, a scientest? Because I think you’re hiding things from me. Because I don’t know what you are feeling, and I am afraid that like all the others you will find a deep well of contempt for me very soon.

Plans.

I think it’s important to have a plan. I know that my parents are planning for their old age– not only in terms of money, but in case their judgement becomes shaky. This is on my mind because of my mother’s parents.

A few weeks ago, my grandmother napped all day. My grandfather was not concerned. She was in a diabetic coma, and it was pure luck that she woke up the next day. Their three daughters only found out two days later. Since then, she had continued to slip under every few days, despite a hospital’s best efforts. They didn’t plan for this, or make any efforts to organize or gauge their financial status. They didn’t tour assisted care facilities in their 70’s, so in their 80’s it falls to my mother and her sisters. I went to see my grandfather last week, while his wife was admitted to the hospital. I asked if he’d been thinking of what the future held. He said they would stay put until they couldn’t keep the farm up any more. But they already weren’t, and didn’t seem to realize it. A woman from their church did their cleaning. My aunt did their mowing. They spent six hours each day preparing and cleaning up after two meals. The house and surrounding trailers and storage sheds were rotting, the house teeming with molds inside the insulation. The pipes were paper-thin with age.

The three daughters convinced their parents to move. By now most of the important items have been transferred to an assisted care facility. They will have activities, their car, and a place to garden. They will be close to a hospital and meal prep will consist of getting to the cafeteria at an appointed time.

My mother has been here, five hours from home, for over a week. When she called last night she seemed on the edge of a breakdown. I want to take care of her, but midterms are coming and I feel guilty for being unable to drop everything. She has worked as an accountant and a tax preparer, and has become the sister in charge of the finances. Shoe-boxes of papers, no organization, some dated in the 1950’s. Papers as old as my mother.

Planning is important.

drummer

This boy is amazing. Our skulls fit together. Our morning breath mysteriously fails to offend. Our ears perk up to the same industrial beats. We speak nonsense blurbles.

Excuse me while I go revel in moon-calfiness.

this boy

He mused, “So this is what chemistry is,” last night. The eternal foot-in-the-mouther, I replied that it was beautiful, but bittersweet– with it came the realization that every previous intimacy and romance had in some form been forced. Talked this morning to a friend about the boy– I suppose he needs a nickname, and I dub him uninventively Drummer. “Why, you’re smitten!” exclaimed the friend. Yes. I want to tell everyone I know about him, but am half-way restraining it like a secret.

This is scary and amazing.