the parable of parentheses

listening to: a quick one while he's away, the who
drinking: coffee sludge

the sky was a summer shade of blue, wilting beige at the corners with a haze of heat that must be imagined as that cool mid-morning felt more like a groundhog spring than the peak of summer. gazing out of the kitchen window onto the enclosed courtyard, she kneaded the maple-syrup stains out of her new high-waisted floral-patterned skirt, remembering the invisible spill over the edges of the cutting board she had, in naive ignorance, thought to use as a plate for her pancakes. (her second plate was in use for the caramel-fleur-de-sel truffles she had made several nights before). as she kneaded, she did not think to inhibit the ephemeral flutter of thoughts of leaving, leaving. the vague images of departure -- baggage carousels, new magazines, no more long walks, a pidgeon's gray wing, construction work -- paraded faster than the pattern of scrubbing, rinsing, wringing.

(once you realize that you do not have to choose between the two places [or extending marjane satrapi's metaphor to three places, in my case] in which you feel at home, that you can be and have both at once, things become easier and more comfortable -- your bed gets bigger.)

leaving her eighth-floor walk-up, leaving the washing in the sink, after the sudden realization that she had forgotten what she had once considered to be the most important anniversary of her life, she felt her insides dissipating. calf muscle, gone; kneecap, gone; lower intestine, gone; diaphragm, esophagus, ear drum, gone. the heart was more stubborn, though: the muscle kept pumping as though it never knew how to forget, like it was independent of the rest of the body, moving alone like a tongue licks or an eyelid blinks. she descended the stairs in a daze and walked with no destination. the heart was now as alone as she was feeling, having estranged herself from the rest of the body, the collective body, and she was being turned by the streets winding off the luxembourg gardens.

on june the sixth 2002, three days previously and six years before, seven oncologists (at least), some she had never seen, paraded into her room. if she were to trust her memory, she would recount how her doctor for that week, leading the rest of the troupe, had the sheen of tears in his eyes as he spoke to her and to her parents. she was laying limp in the bed. her parents were hovering at her side, opposite to the medical staff. "mr and mrs L, we have some very good news." the girl didn't move; she didn't even nod in acknowledgement. "yeah, all right," she said; "i knew this," she thought, "but we still have seven more months."

six years later, she had forgotten the anniversary that marked the beginning of her stolen time on the world, tentative health, teetering collapses of doubt: the beginning. she wanted to lose herself in paris, but considering her sense of direction and familiarity with it all, she ended up on the pont des arts, watching the sun set over the Seine. a romanian insisted on sitting next to her and invited her to smoke a cigarette - she declined. he asked her if she was happy; he said the right answer was "i'm trying." he asked her what her biggest and wildest dreams were, the kind of dreams that are inconceivable in size; she said all of her dreams were reasonable, manageable. he didn't understand the ability to dismiss grandeur with the confidence of success.

in forgetting, she had unknowingly given more value to the living.