This conversation will occur with our voices traveling roughly three thousand miles,
round trip, no stop-overs, no delays,
and with so much space between us -
(and by space I mean pain and by pain I mean honesty)
with so much space between us she has the nerve to ask me how I'm doing
as if she's not calling from a hospital bed,
as if I'm the one who deserves attention,
as if the distance-thing isn't a problem,
I do not have the heart to tell her how I'm doing.

I might as well be a newborn, and this might as well be day one.
Thrust from an orb that cradled me.
First time with vision, and it's blurry.
First time with taste, and it's sour.
First time with touching
and I'm crying only because I have no way to communicate,
no language to translate how I feel in this moment,
unable to hold onto thoughts
as there is nothing behind me, no memory to draw from.
There is only everything infinitely ahead of me.
In this moment, right here, present day
I'm like a newborn - because I'm not sure how I feel.

I don't have the heart to tell her that I am two hundred and six bones
wrapped in tissue and cushioned by muscle,
a well-constructed skeleton that holds a body that supports this head.
That I'm this head that houses this brain
which navigates this tongue to deliver these words.
That I'm this brain unaware that it is navigating this tongue to deliver these words.
That I'm this tongue unaware that it is being navigated
and even further unaware that the sounds it makes are words that communicate thoughts.

And how am I supposed to tell her that I am these words; fleeting, meticulous vibrations.
That I am these words, more than I am the emotion that these words convey.

I'm carbonation, bottled up,
I'm preservatives, ingredients, I'm small elements,
I'm dust, falling through a small slither of light cast through a window
of a house that hasn't felt real warmth since November twenty-second, nineteen sixty-three,
just before twelve thirty pm,

I'm at a loss.
And I do not have the heart to tell her that sometimes the generation gap between us
is more like a language barrier.
I don't tell her that I have a distinct memory of sitting in her car on a rainy day
counting the windshield wiper intervals
and I don't tell her that that was the only time in my life when I wished the rain wouldn't stop.
I don't tell her that I will never forget the exact register of her voice when she'd call me, Francois.
I don't tell her that her apartment reminds me of certain attics I've been in,
old libraries I've visited on field-trips,
and certain periods in world history that I've only ever read about.
I never in my life tell her that I am envious of the pedestal that she put Jesus on -
because there's something I'm never gonna live up to.

How am I doing -

I'd be doing great if I could just ask her if she's ever felt this way at any point in her life,
so calculated and alive, yet so profoundly unsure.
If I could just ask her if she has ever felt like the weather
unaware that she was affecting our day specs,
unaware that she could be felt.

Every time she speaks she propels sounds as deep as epicenters
and her words hang heavy like hand-carved rosaries.
When her voice decides to unfurl itself and birth words like hurricanes
I don't take shelter,
I bare the brunt of knowing that this - is it
and this is where we are - and this is what I am

and I don't tell her that I am these two lungs that unknowingly give oxygen to a blood stream.
That I am this blood that knows neither of these organs yet needs them.
That I am this heart made up of four chambers that can't contain themselves.
I am this heart that beats itself - to death.
I am this heart driving like a piston, like a bass drum, calling it's own name,
making itself known, pumping to the rhythm of a song it will never know the words to.

At some point her voice begins to say more than her tongue.
From three thousand miles away I don't tell her that I am the tears in my eyes.
I don't tell her that the tears in my eyes are proof that my soul is an ocean with a slow leak.

She doesn't ever in her life tell me that she is two hundred and six bones,
wrapped in tissue and cushioned by muscle.
She doesn't tell me that there is only everything infinitely ahead,
in this moment, right here, present day, she doesn't tell me what I don't need to hear.

I don't ever tell her that I view her as proof
that even angels have mortality to some degree.
Alive with spines and eyes and oxygen-ized but holy on the inside.

I don't ever tell her that to be of her blood is a blessing.

If I were to trust her words then she's feeling better
and if I were to trust my cell phone then we're connected
and with our voices going to great lengths
she doesn't have the heart to tell me that this is the last time I will ever hear her voice
and it's blurry.
The last time I will hear her voice and the only thing I can believe in is heaven
and I pray that it's everything she ever prayed for.
That it's not just an attic.
That it's not just a glorified collection of books.
That it's more than all the periods of world history combined
and that her halo - fits
and that it weighs far less than the burdens she's carried her entire life.

This conversation occurs with thousands of miles between us,
this is the farthest apart we have ever been, physically,
and with so much space between us,
with so much emptiness between us,
with so much left unsaid between us,
this is, without a doubt, the closest we have ever been.

08/26/2008

Author's Note: (( hear it. ))

Posted on 08/26/2008
Copyright © 2024 Frankie Sanchez