In hospital room number 7 I squeezed her hand hard, the way she told me her Grandma Meese used to. Bone-clenched. They say deep muscle tissue is the last to lose feeling. I didn't expect a response but when she remained unmoved I flinched and let go. When her eyes opened later and I started talking again, I saw thoughts, restricted from expression by a breathing tube, pass across her face like fish under water-- thoughts that you wouldn't have seen. I know her body, from the inside. I inhabited her once. What does she know about me that I don't? That nobody else sees? She named my feelings hours before they formed in words. Now I'm reading hers.
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2 comments:
she knows all of you, before you did. and that is all and vanished and part of you, but she knew it and knows it still. she knows the shape of your first toes and fingers, the shape of your new born head. so many tiny little memories and movements.
i love you.
Jenny,
I spent the weekend at the Hicks' house in Margaret River, which always means a weekend thinking of you. And, moving into my new house last week I found a letter you wrote me once, which made me stop and take breath.
A tight hug, girl.
(I love you too)
Chris
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