I thought I’d put that baby to bed.
I received a call from area code 561. I know more than one living in that zone, but rarely speak with them, at least not on the telephone. There is, however, a particular person, with whom I don’t speak at all.
Folding laundry, my phone rang. I looked down and saw the dreaded 561. My initial reaction was worry. Why? Why would I be worried? He’s been dead to me for years. Figuratively speaking.
Death, figuratively speaking, is not really death though, is it? No. Literal death is quite different. Something I didn’t realize until my phone rang yesterday.
Implicit in figurative death is time. That there is still time. Hope still dwells, where I thought there was none.
Hope, in this case, is a kind of sickness. A kind of dementia. Nothing really changes here, only the numbered years. Static Flux. Hope is a sad reminder of what will never be, what never was.
The baby is awake now. …not screaming yet, but soon, unless I can lull her back to sleep. When the real death comes. I’m afraid. There will be no calming her.