My Auntie died one year ago today.........so many dead....so many lives measured, woven, and cut short by them, the Fates, the Sisters, My Goddesses, Clotho, Atropos, and Lachesis. Why do they have to cut them so short, why is this necessarry?
It was their time,
it was thier destiny,
it was fate,
it was coincidence,
it was accident,
or divine intervention that took them, made them one with itself, right? Right? Something has to be right, so what is it? What is the answer? Or is there one?
She meant so much to us, so very, very much to all of us, so I suppose it was right that she be taken, yes? Yes? It was because we loved her so very, very much, right? Something or someone you love that much obviously has to die, has to make room for one who will depress, repress, opress you, or just generally piss you off. If you are too happy, or have too many people to love, you will lose sight of your misery, it will become bearable, tolerable, fixable, painless. This is why they are taken, right? Because without misery we will never know happiness? Because if we do not know the face of evil, we will not know good?
Is that it? Is it, or is it something else? Coincidence maybe? Why did I become strong under severe duress, and Ali became weak, a victim, used and abused by any who had pretty enough words. Why this difference? Why are some mice, some strong, and some predators? Is this the way we want it? is this the way it should be? Grandaddy has been dead now for 8 days short of 14 years, Meghan for a little over 6, Draven for a little under 3. So many, so many ... Bryson for 10 years, Skylar and Hacken for 9, and 9 1/2 respectively, Alexia 10 also, as well as Della and Stephie for 7. Then, all in the same month, Keilie, Lizette, Max, and Star. They've been gone for, gods, 8 now. There are more ... so many more that I can never hold but in memory.
Trying to pour out your pain to a memory is hard, so hard. Trying to get advice still worse, and the most horrible is, I can still see them, all of them. It's as if they were all standing together in Zilker park, and I took a picture of them, but I wasn't in it, and I wasn't there, but I took the picture anyway. And now, here I have that picture haunting me, hiding behind my eyelids every morning when I try to get to sleep. That picture, splashed with blood sometimes, sometimes not ... sometimes it is a picture of how they were each found, dead, some I found myself, some I didn't ... sometimes it is a picture full of happiness and joy, the joy we had in one another ... somethimes it is faded, sometimes new ... sometimes they are pointing fingers at me and laughing with or at me, sometimes acusing, sometimes asking me to join them, and rarely, sometimes just as they were in life. Their attitudes, postures, and expressions.
Once, I held the picture, and it burst into flames, as I looked at it ... I could not drop it because if I did they would die one final time ... the death of memory, never to be thought of again, as if they did not exist. I couldn't let that happen, so, knowing I would go up with the flames, I held on ... I held on, and I burned. I felt the heat first, an odd feeling, then it felt cold, not like burning, but like freezing ... then all at once the pain, my entire body in pain, burning, terrified of death, but more terrified of losing them again, and I held on. I burned up, and died as well, but I still had them. I wasn't with them, but I had them with me, in my memory. In the memory of others who knew me, lived the memory of them.
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