She said, "I’m tired of the war,
I want the kind of work I had before,
a wedding dress or something white
to wear upon my swollen appetite." 
	—Joan of Arc, Leonard Cohen

This low that tightens after a project, that clenches in the confusion of no longer having a distraction from finding direction, lately wrings of anger and sadness—of fatigue. It’s tiring making it all so hard.

So, after stacking and binding the papers, I fled. I ate by the attention of the men working at Piecora’s, and then strode down the hill for shampoo and face cleanser (out of both for days). Sampled a lipstick called Tambourine that might as well have been named Fellatio for the way people looked at my lips afterward. I showered without washing my face to save the lipstick and then dressed to match it. People asked me where I was going, what my big plans were, but I had none and no one I wanted to see. The memories of wanting to be social sat empty as a drum in my chest.

Longing to buy things. Besides the items that need replenishment, certain things need repair and replacement altogether. And I’m tired of my clothes. August is eleven months since my last full paycheck. This month I earned almost as much as I did when I worked downtown full-time for a company I grew to hate. I miss being able to buy books and CDs and clothes whimsically. If I had a string of months like this I would buy, of course, clothes—a new robe and pants, certainly shirts and underwear, but also fantasy extras, and a new laptop, wireless networking crap, a couch, etc.

I came home and wrote by Gewurztraminer. Andrew dropped by some time later with hot chocolate and a brownie. He saved me from a big headache.

The next day, recovery. Some of the feeling bubbled over and left. But then I went to see my gma and she nearly died as I sat there beside her. She would have if the nurses hadn’t ... hadn’t turned the light on our conversation and pumped her full of glucose to raise her blood sugar level. Gma said it would come back up when it wasn’t and everyone was worried. She said it like she was reassuring us, not herself. She predicted it from experience.

Afterward I cried standing over her telling her I was worried. And she said that if she had gone, it would have been a relief.... I asked her how she wanted me to honor her after she died. And she said I didn’t have to do anything. Then she added, "Just remember our time together." And then more strongly: "And don’t EVER forget."

And me, I offered a litany of assurances. How could I forget? I think of her everyday in some small way, of some preference she had for a way of doing something that she passed on to me, or the things she taught me explicitly, or I simply see our resemblance.

We were holding hands and she gripped mine strongly, her palm soft and warm.

...

I have been thinking about that time in the room in the dark when she labored for breath and she slipped into and out of sleep. How she hallucinated and I, who hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, couldn’t get a bearing on the situation: whether her state reflected general deterioration or an acute situation. My gift of being able to be present with others would’ve stayed gently beside as she slipped into coma.... And into relief.

Whose gift? The nurse looked at me with surprise, asked me how long I’d been sitting with her when she was like that. She said next time I should notify them if anything at all seemed different. I said I didn’t know what was happening or I would’ve said something. Gma said she doesn’t feel anything when she starts to slide like that.... Afterward, she was in great pain.

Sunday was nothing but good. Watching TV and cooking. A long lazy drive that night.