May 15, 2015

May 11, 2014

There was the gravel road, the big, white mansion, your mom in the garden, and there was me.

I didn't want to come inside because I knew it would make me feel things. Things for you, things for the white mansion. For your mother in her gardening gloves and a beige linen dress. I knew I couldn't get away empty if I came inside, which is always a thing I'm trying to get away on, isn't it? I often run on only enough to carry me through. To the next gas station, the next meal. The next time I see you.

That's it with you. I want empty because it's less work. And work is something you're a lot of. And if you're work, then I want empty because it means there's less of you. 


I wrote this last year after my first visit to the big, white mansion on the outskirts of Brigham City. The first time I met Jude's mother, she was gardening and warm. A month or two before she'd been diagnosed. She invited me inside, but I declined her invitation. Because I was just too scared.

Last Friday, I went back to the big, white mansion and this time, I went inside. Started writing about the experience tonight and couldn't even get through the thing without choking up. 

1 comment:

  1. This is lovely and sad and pretty and delicate. Like you. And I love your words and you a lot, ok?


i like words. and you. write me a few?