From Can’t and Won’t by Lydia Davis

I came across this:

 

 

“The Child”

She is bending over her child. She can’t leave her. The child is laid out in state on a stable. She wants to take one more photograph of the child, probably the last. In life, the child would never sit still for a photograph. She says to herself, “I’m going to get the camera,” as if saying to the child, “Don’t move.”

dream

 

The short story reminded me of a picture of Amanda I have from the afternoon of the viewing. It is the only picture I have of her from that day. I feel certain someone asked me to take it. I find it impossible to think it could have been my idea. I want to say it was our mother who couldn’t be there, who asked me to take it, but truthfully I cannot recall. What I do remember is not being able to do it. I didn’t have trouble looking on her, though I didn’t particularly enjoy that either. But I specifically couldn’t hover a hand above her face, phone in hand, and try to capture that silence, that stillness.

 

I asked my uncle Jack to take the picture. The request caused him to break into a sob but he didn’t hesitate to do what I’d asked. I didn’t check the picture when he gave my phone back. Now I wonder if I asked him to also send it to whoever had requested it. Because I plain don’t remember doing anything with the picture. I do remember when I got back home I asked my fiancé to upload it to his computer’s hard drive, and then delete all traces of it in my phone and on Google Photos, which is where my media files are automatically backed up to. And actually, I haven’t seen the picture since. I don’t think I’ll ever delete it, though. And I doubt I’ll ever need to look at it. Since the moment the photo existed, I’ve always had it and never seen it. I don’t want to change that. I think it a common thing that many people who experience loss are averse to change as if unchanging-ness can bring back the dead. Don’t move.

From Your Heart Is A Muscle the Size of A Fist by Sunil Yapa

“There where they learned that courage is not the ability to face your fear, heroically, once, but is the strength to do it day after day.”

From Name All the Animals by Alison Smith (2)

We toured the city, looking for summer work as a cashier, a waiter, a groundskeeper, anything. I saw parts of Rochester that I had never seen before. After four hours of driving around and searching, filling out application forms against the hood of the camper-van, sitting in parking lots, eating soft ice cream, and tossing a ball back and forth while he waited for the manager, Roy began to talk to me like he did when we were children. We had Brighton, and once gain, we were waiting for the manager.

 

He pulled out one of his favorite books. Leaning against the van, he asked, “Have you ever heard of the fourth dimension?”

 

I shook my head.

 

It had to do with your perception of time, he explained. “You know how pictures, photos are two-dimensional and the world”–he flung his arms out–“life, is three-dimensional. You’ve heard of that?”

 

I said I had.

 

“There’s a fourth dimension, which is time. Space and time are linked together indissolubly.”

 

I blew my bangs off my forehead, leaned away from the heat of the engine. “Indissolubly?”

 

“Like this.” He hooked his forefingers together. “They can never be separated. If a place changes, then you know that time has passed, right? So if time changes, space must change as well.”

 

I stared at him.

 

“You don’t get it?” he asked, petulant, almost forlorn. It was as if my noncomprehension was a personal slight. He hooked his fingers together again and repeated it, “Indissolubly.” He was quoting his favorite scientist, Hermann Weyl, but I didn’t know that yet.

 

I remember the sound of his voice rising, cracking on the last syllable, his face growing flushed in the heat and the excitement, nails bitten to the quick, two fingers linked together. “Indissolubly.” After he died, I would imitate him. I would stand in our fort and roll the words on my tongue, the soft roundness of it, its opaque meaning. I believed that somehow it was the word that linked him to me, that stitched his fate to mine.

*

In our young, young years together, Amanda taught me the basic tenets of Algebra. I remember her praising me for following the simplest structures. I was maybe six or seven, and even now I remember vividly how it felt to bask in the recognition of my older sister.

*

Another time, after Mini was born, Amanda explained the concept of rotational inertia to me as we were talking about how Mini felt much lighter to hold as she learned to carry her own weight in another’s arms. Or was it that she felt heavier as she learned to move around a bunch? Sadly, I have long since forgotten what I’d been taught, but fortunately a lovely and warm memory of the day of my impromptu lesson remains with me.

From Name All the Animals by Alison Smith

These phrases rattled around inside me. I had no name for the feelings they conjured up. Like captions for a set of lost photographs, I knew what the individual words meant, but I didn’t know what to attach them to. And my parents didn’t know how to tell me. We had lost the thread of our own story. Grief takes that from you. It makes the familiar, the quotidian, turn strange.

State of the Blog: Better To Do

Last year after finalizing the process of taking over this, my sister’s blog & domain, and after organizing her memorial and inurnment, I wrote a post announcing that I’d be the new resident blogger behind Dr Wise Money here.

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