A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || February 19, 2008 || 10:54 pm

se·nes’cence n.

Confesssion: When I tell people that I miss my mother, I am not alluding to the geographical distance. What I am really saying is that I miss the mother I knew pre-illness. That woman was whip-smart and redefined for many a human being what a female should be. She was amazing in her capability of heart and her reserve of boundless determination.

Overall, her sense of humor hasn’t changed much, and I’m thankful for that. It reminds me, it helps me not to forget that what I recall of her was indeed an actuality and not some fancy shellac-work of my memory.

Now, on to part two….the fear that blooms wild, stubborn and unruly at the center of the previous confession: I am terribly afraid of being the possessor of a body that would, as I age, completely turn on me. A body that makes a mockery of past capability and reason, like a polaroid image degraded over time: Colors blanch and lines blur and you have the basic form and idea of something, but it doesn’t quite pop the way it did on the first day it came into being and you beheld it all sharp and bold. I could not care one whit if my skin wrinkles beyond all sensible boundaries; the lines blurring is of no great concern to me. I want to keep my color forever, though, to be smart of mind and strong of voice until God tucks down his hand from heaven to dance me on up there.

Yeah, I can deal with most all my outsides transforming and dulling, but I never want my eyes or my synapses to follow suit. I want to be in the game every second possible.

2 worked it out »

  1. ruth ann 3.14.2008

    beautiful writing about your mother and death. I loved the line “…until God tucks down his hand from heaven to dance me on up there.”

     
  2. Jettomatika 3.14.2008

    Thank you, Ruth Ann. Welcome.

     

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