There’s something sugar coated about the Thursday night waiting for Friday morning. Like night renews me as something other than me for one day a week and that day is coming. I feel ripped open. The street corner was far enough to walk, let alone the café. It was a stretching. My arms in square blocked extension. At the crux of me leaving and me coming, I am half singing break up songs, half cradling my heartbeat in my wrists against my sides that were around his neck feeling the double beating; our bodies mirrors, our facing away to go separately, terrifying and freeing. Me overflowing, a buzz between fleeing and clinging, opening my arms to hold tight and comfort and pushing off as if flea bitten, diseased, an externalization of my unsorted stuff in front of me bleeding, before I am willing to hold it and dirty myself with the truth of what needs releasing. But nothing is as beautiful as this aching. Nothing is as alive as not being able to pinpoint but just just just going. Booking flights, telling truths, shutting my mouth on things that make much more impact when said in silence. It’s just that I didn’t believe I would ever become patient. That was what you did when you wanted to mask your loss of steam to be blatant as something done on purpose- That was the sad resentment and lost hope and final defeat of my great grandmother as she admitted she was now feeble and powerless. I always thought vitality was synonymous with argument. I miss her- my great grandmother. I wish she could have seem me do all the things I promised her I’d do, though in those traditional seeming progressions from marriage to parenthood to ownership to pension, we never talked about all that was promised. That women had to become women who looked for a man from a place of their own choosing and not from a place where their worth was measured through what they could make out of a downward spiral of manhood. That manipulation was never something I could pull off and I would have to be honest through being told my pain and my sight was a handicap in a family where blindness was an asset. That no, I wouldn’t just go through the motions. That no, I was going to piss off more people, more often than I would be a plain old success at being marginally disappointing. That I would speak all the things that weren’t spoken. That I would hold myself accountable for my inheritance. And I couldn’t quite get it all together before she had to leave. Before her control and her love and her striving outlived her body. But what I wouldn’t give for a hot cup of Chamomile, some Bella Dona cookies and my sassy-mouthed outlaw of a matriarch grandmother to give me the wisely chosen words of her own admissions of culpability, her own fears, her own human predicament. What I wouldn’t give, to hold her, to be held by her own hurried, practiced patience, showing me we are all flawed. That we get as close as we can. That it’s okay to stay in and eat cookies, to fall into a bed in the clicking silence of feeling momentarily emptied. There’s something sugar coated about the Thursday night waiting for Friday morning.