They are getting Tata an MRI to check for brain cancer. The cancer in her lungs is mostly gone, but now her mind is worse than ever. Dad said he and Shakti were driving Tata home and Tata looked up in the front seat and asked Shakti, "Where is Carlos?" Dad, behind the wheel, one foot away, said "I'm here, mother." And things like that squeeze on my heart and make me angry at doctors and chemotherapy and my aunt who won't listen and keeps pressing for more, more. Mostly, I feel sadness trickling to my fingertips and to my lips and I think, I don't want to see any of this.
I think after Mom died I just don't want to be around it anymore. On the phone I told Tata, "Te quiero para la luna y al regreso," and that made her happy, and I told her I would come visit over spring break, and she liked that too. I don't know if I can.
One part of me I'm ashamed of says, She doesn't even remember you promising her you'd come, you don't have to go.
A different part of me says, She's your grandmother and it's your duty to see her and support her right now. She needs all of us.
A part of me that's softer says, Do what you can, love as much and as fully as you can, and don't fault yourself for the things you cannot give.
I like this third part of me.
Dad said in an email that he was feeling old, beat up, and tired. When Dad is sad it hurts me in my bones like the growing pains I had as a kid. You lie awake at night and the growing seizes your thighs and your calves and your bones and bears down. And there's no mark—that's the worst part, there's no mark to show how it hurts like hell. There's just the silent sound of muscles spinning out, growing longer.
I wish I could scoop him up. I am young and strong and I have opportunities and abilities and I want to make his life easier. I want him to be able to stop seeing clients and to stop having to deal with all their heavy shit. I want him to be able to take care of his plants in the way he taught me, to be able to spend all day with his hands in dirt—if he wants to. I want to help him do this, I do not know how, I do not know if I can. I want to write a New York Times Bestseller so I can have enough money to retire him. This is what I'd call Putting Too Much Pressure on Yourself. This is what I'd call The Wrong Way to Look at Things. It's still something that often and regularly wiggles its way into my thoughts. It also means that I love my dad very much, and that's a Good Thing.
Not every person wants to be my friend. This should have been an Obvious Thing. Now I know, now I am Learning. Now I am not spending energy trying to force friendships that aren't happening. This is also a Good Thing.
I've started reading poetry.
I've been thinking about writing a lot.
I am allowed to look at women again and I forgot how beauty can make your heart jump and make your words come out stupid and I love that.
A new chapter of life, everything feels new, I can do what I want, when I want, I don't have to check in with anyone. My time is my own.
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.
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