I arrived yesterday afternoon to an unusually warm Minneapolis. The landscape wore the same shit-brown coat that it dons every spring. Bare arms, chopstick-thin bikers, and mildly obese people appeared and every familiarity became repulsive and wearisome. In short, the scenery, the people, the colors, became reminders that I left my parents behind, but I do not know what else I could have done.
And a part of me is horribly disappointed for the reprieve. That I may sleep past 6 a.m., that I'm not checking the clock constantly, that I'm not calling the pharmacy, that I'm not praying repeatedly, that I'm not choking on every spoonful during meals because my mother is six feet away from us while we eat dinner and she's nourished by the memories of her last meal five months ago.
All catholics wear regret with as much ease as they do their skin. But the act of leaving my father and mother behind has sliced me open. My heart goes plumbum, and it pulls despair into my throat.
