|
When my chest feels
like it’s full of rocks,
I look up the symptoms
and tick every box.
√ swollen feet and ankles (oh yeah after 6 surgeries)
√ persistent cough (no cold)
√ rapid pulse (83 vs 65)
√ uneven heartbeat (comes and goes)
√ rapid weight gain (9 pounds in 9 weeks)
√ fatigue and tiredness (napping)
√ wheezing (not yet)
Congested with sadness,
broken too many times
(why did I ever want to join
clubs that didn’t want me
as a member?),
how functional is this heart
other than as a pump?
Have I ever really loved anyone?
Has anyone really loved me?
My mother when I was an infant?
Possibly.
I used to think that
living in an apartment
was too anonymous.
If I died, my neighbor Zhenia,
same birthday 12 years earlier,
would never notice.
I dropped in for tea
once or twice a year,
she never. Coming and going,
we met in our common vestibule
about as often.
I thought the village would be
different. People can see
who comes and goes at your house.
My new neighbor, an off-again,
on-again two-timing lover,
always came when it was dark
and never stayed until morning.
“People notice.”
20 years later, not so much.
My neighborly lover is dead.
One kouma divorced and
moved away and never calls
since I informed her that
I was not prepared to be
a wallet on two legs
for my godson.
My other kouma calls once
in a week or two, maybe,
even after surgery.
The neighborhood women
come only if I call and ask them to,
even after surgery.
Not like Maria Palamarychka who,
at least 82 then and unaware
of the stomach cancer
that would kill her
a few years later, came by
every day or two
bearing kasha or deruny
in her thin, blue-veined hands
when I broke my ankle
more than a decade ago.
My neighbors no longer see me.
And I try not to pester them.
So my heart breaks a little more
every single day.
These days, I watch videos
of houses in beautiful settings,
everywhere but here.
I watch Escape to the Country (UK),
Living Big in a Tiny House (NZ),
and Love it or Leave It,
US and Australia versions
(actually Love it or List it,
what a Freudian slip).
When I make tentative moves
to buy a mobile home
in Kelowna, to eventually,
possibly, even share
with my two sisters (all of us
pensioners
facing financial constraints),
one asks me if I have a Plan B,
the other says that having me
“a block away”
would be bothersome, even scary.
I thank the realtor
and close all the tabs.
My third sister, the buddy
I supported during her chemo
who supported me
during my cancer,
suggested
more than once
that I should consider
living with them.
But when I do consider it,
she says
“I said you could stay with us.”
We don’t talk much
any more.
My ex talks about buying land
and building
somewhere less extreme
than hurricane-prone
red-necky
northern Florida,
but puts it on the back burner
as soon as we start talking.
My neighbors no longer see me,
my koumy liked my money well enough,
my sisters are happy on their own,
my ex wants his solitude
among the rednecks.
The cracks are growing.
My heart is running down.
It’s just a matter of time.
There may be more room
in Carly Simon’s broken heart,
but I’m just the spider
that the rain washed out.
December 4, 2023
|
