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.